


Rough Wooings

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Georgian AU, Marriage of Convenience, Relationships may take a while to appear, Romance, Warnings In Author's Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-01 07:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11481333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: With his father dead, Lord Jaime Lannister finds himself required to wed in order to receive his inheritance, whilst Lord Robb Stark is forced to cry off the woman he loves to save his home and his family. Meanwhile, Lady Brienne Tarth must leave behind all she knows in a bid for freedom.





	1. Part 1 chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally a chapter of 'The J/B Alphabet', only I took it out to turn it into a one-shot, then a short multi-chapter fic, and then into this. Please read and review, and let me know if you enjoyed it.

** Part One **

As they stepped from the Lawyer's office and out onto the streets, Cersei was the first to voice her grief.

“How dare he!” she fumed, “He has already sold me off the once, now he intends to do so again. Was being traded like cattle not enough for him the first time? I have done everything he has asked of me, and yet still, beyond the grave, he treats me as a brood mare!” she paced up and down the street, brandishing her black fur muff. Her faced turned a red that rivalled the rubies on her choker.

“Surely you could live off the money Robert left you?” Tyrion asked sweetly, knowing full well Cersei's answer.

“What money?” she shrieked, “Robert lost it all! He threw it away on that ridiculous scheme with Lord Stark,” she turned to face Jaime, “Why didn't you tell him not to?” she demanded.

Jaime placed his hand on Cersei's shoulder. “Sweet sister,” he said, “I tried, as did Tyrion and father both. I even wrote to Lord Stark to advise against it. If anything, that just made them more convinced the idea was sound,”

Tears streaked down Cersei's pale, lovely face. Jaime longed to gather Cersei into his arms, but knew she would not tolerate him doing so in the crowded street.

“And now,” she bewailed, “All that is left has gone to Joffrey. Without my inheritance, I shall be forced to live of the charity of that little Tyrell whore!” Cersei spat. Cersei's distaste for her good daughter was well known and the source of much delighted gossip in the Ton. Especially ever since Cersei had tried to spread rumours regarding Lady Margaery's chastity, and one of Robert's lady friends was seen wearing a gold rose brooch.

The mere thought of having to live off Margaery's pity was enough for Cersei to collapse into Jaime's arms. Despite having done all they could to keep their secret hidden, Jaime indulged her, and himself. After all, their father was dead. Why wouldn't he comfort his anguished sister?

Cersei looked up at him with emerald eyes so like his own. He saw the silent plea in her gaze and knew what she wanted from him.

“Jaime,” she whispered, “Please, for my sake. If you wed and inherit the Rock, I need not marry for my inheritance,” she leaned up to murmur into his ear, “And then we can be together,”

Tyrion, who had been watching the exchange with some interest, now felt the need to wonder off and examine an extremely fascination window display.

Jaime felt a pang in his chest as he imagined himself and Cersei, living their lives out together on the Rock. After Robert and their father died, Jaime had truly believed it would be possible. Any grief Jaime had felt over his father's death was overshadowed by the convenience. Cersei was free of Robert, and Casterly was free from Tywin.

But then the Will was read and once more, Tywin Lannister found a way of destroying the dreams of his children. If they wished to receive their inheritance, they must be wed to a noble house within the year. Having heard the Will, Jaime had wondered if Tywin had known about his and Cersei's secret desires and sought to put an end to them beyond the grave. But no, he had concluded. When it came to his twins, the cold and cunning Tywin Lannister had been miraculously short sighted. His conditions were for one reason only. Heirs. Now, if Jaime wished to live his life out with Cersei, a third party would have to be introduced to the equation. One Cersei had not considered.

“And my wife?” Jaime responded, raising a quizzical eyebrow, “What of she?”

Cersei scoffed. “We need not concern ourselves with her. Find some wretched lesser noble house and pluck a younger daughter from there. She will be grateful enough to be Lady Lannister, and need not bother us,”

Jaime nodded slowly. In truth, he already knew what he had to do. Jaime was loathe to take any wife but Cersei and he neither wanted nor needed the Rock, and would have happily returned to the Army. But he would not see Cersei traded off again, and Tyrion still needed support to continue his studies at Oldtown. Jaime was many things, few of them good. A sister-fucker was one, the murderer of his old Commander another. He fell into duels as quickly as his brother fell into the beds of whores, and it was a balmy day in the Seven Hells when he could be bothered to be pleasant to his company.

But Jaime would never abandon his siblings.

Nor would he leave his home in the hands of his repulsive nephew, who knew what havoc he would wreak on it?

He clenched his jaw and nodded. “Very well Cersei, I will find a woman to wed. And within the year. It cannot be that hard,”

**#**

“Robb?” Catelyn asked gently, “Did you understand what I said?”

Robb stared numbly at his mother. Lady Catelyn Stark was a handsome woman, despite being the mother of five. The severe yet elegant black mourning wear she had worn since her husband had died, only served to increase her beauty and highlight her pale skin and auburn tresses.

“Robb?” she repeated.

Robb nodded curtly and went to stare at the window. From his view he could see the gardens and the Godswood, where the Starks had worshipped for centuries. Winterfell was ancient, crumbling and in dire need of repair. Especially in the years since Lord Eddard's death, when he had died leaving his family in mounds of debt. But it was their home. Before the Long night, Starks had fought and died for Winterfell, passing it from one Lord to another.

Now that burden fell upon Robb. He could not lose Winterfell. Whatever the cost.

“I know,” Catelyn went on, “That you had an understanding with the Westerling girl. But the Westerlings are even worse of than us, and everything will go to her younger brother. Jeyne is penniless-”

“I know that Mother,” Robb cut her off in sharply, before continuing in a softer voice, “I know,”

“Lady Roslin is a lovely young lady, and will make a fine mistress for Winterfell. What's more, Lord Frey will pay off all of your father's debts. I know this is hard Robb, but if you agree then Winterfell need not be sold. We could all stay,”

“And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” Robb murmured under his breath, remembering what his father had told him.

Silence fell between the two, before Catelyn added cautiously, “There is another option,”

Robb turned to face his mother, watching her eagerly. “Yes?” he said.

“Roose Bolton has offered his son, for Sansa, and will buy the estate” Catelyn said, “Winterfell will go to the Boltons, but Sansa will be its mistress and her children will inherit,”

“Does Sansa know of this offer?”

“Not yet. But she will agree if she must,” here Catelyn's voice took on an edge, “She knows her duty,”

Robb scowled at the implication. Yes, Sansa was ever dutiful. But then, wasn't he? He thought of his beautiful sister. Always diligent and courteous. So unlike his youngest sister, Arya. Whereas Arya longed for adventure and excitement, all Sansa ever wanted was to fall in love and build a loving family with her husband. Sansa lived and breathed romance.

To offer her up to Ramsay Bolton... The entire family had been relieved when Lord Joffrey's true character came to light before anything serious grew between the two. Ramsay Bolton was Joffrey without the charm, looks or birth.

Sansa was his sister, and Winterfell was his home. He would lose neither.

“Very well Mother,” he said decisively, “Write to Lord Frey and tell him I accept,”

Robb turned back to the Godswood. He tried to think of his father, who would no doubt approve of his choice, having always been guided by honour. He tried to think of all that he had saved. His home, his sister, his family's honour. He tried to think of that, and not what he had lost.

He tried not to think of Jeyne.

**#**

Few words had passed Brienne's lips when she first arrived at Horn Hill. She had been stuck in a dream like daze ever since her father's bloodied corpse had been found. He had been galloping along the cliffs of Tarth upon his favourite white stallion when his horse took fright and bolted. Lord Selwyn was thrown from seat and catapulted down onto the rocks below, cracking his skull upon the jagged boulders. By the time his body was found, the tide had come in and water flooded between the rocks in which he had been caught, and his corpse was wet and bloated.

Brienne had been part of the search party that had set out looking for her father and the first to see his dead body floating in the rock pools. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again.

Those first few nights in Evenfall after his death were torture, a constant battle for sleep. The sound of the sea crashing against the shore that had been a comfort for so long became the sound of her father's bones cracking on impact.

Moving from Evenfall and into her guardian’s estate had almost come as a relief. For the first six months, Lord Tarly had left her alone and Brienne was allowed to mourn her father's passing in peace. Slowly, she recaptured her love for riding and fencing, past times that had initially been a gut-wrenching reminder of her father. Now, the memories of her father that came along were a comfort.

Lord Tarly had disapproved, and on discovering Brienne's habits had cracked down hard on them. He confiscated her precious Valyrian Steel sword her father had gifted her, and gave orders that she was to be refused access to the horses, less she ride side saddle and with a groom. When she attempted to disobey, he responded by confining her to her chambers. When she tried to protest, Tarly had swung his fist at her, before storming out and locking the door behind him.

Brienne had only been allowed out two weeks later. She was led to Lord Tarly's study, where she came face to face with Ser Humfrey Wagstaff, who Lord Tarly informed her was to be her husband. Beneath the severed animal heads that graced the walls of Lord Tarly's study she listened in sickened horror.

“You should have been wed long ago. Your father was far too soft on you, indulging your nonsense, gifting you a sword-”

“That is my family's sword. It has been in our family since the Long Night, it belonged to my namesake-”

“Silence!” Lord Tarly snapped, whilst Ser Wagstaff glowered at her from under a pair of heavy eyebrows. He continued, “Ever since you came to this household you have been a constant disruption. Rude, sullen and haring off about on your horses, astride and unchaperoned. It is a disgrace. If not for the respect I had for your father; fool he was for encouraging you, I would have cast you out long ago. Instead I took you in, and miraculously found you a husband. He shall take you in hand and teach you proper decorum,”

“Indeed I shall,” Ser Wagstaff muttered darkly, running is eyes over Brienne in a manner that caused her to shudder, already feeling the blow of his hand on her skin.

“Now, you will be grateful for this match and marry Ser Wagstaff without complaint,”

“Never,” Brienne whispered, then louder “ _Never!”_

“How _dare_ you interrupt your guardian.” Ser Wagstaff thundered, “There shall be no such insolence when you are my wife, I can assure you. I shall not suffer it. If I had to beat you within a inch of your life until you obey me, then so be it,”

“Then I am glad, Ser,” she choked, burying her fists into her skirt, “That I shall never be your wife,”

Ser Wagstaff strode forward and swung a meaty fist round Brienne's face. The blow stung, but Brienne returned it in equal measure, smashing the palm of her hand into his nose. It burst, and blood gushed down his waistcoat. Lord Tarly grabbed a hold of her wrists, squeezing them to breaking point.

“You are clearly deranged,” he sneered, taking in her flushed face and bloodied fists. “And so I tell you now, if you do not accept Ser Wagstaff's suit, you shall be sent to an Asylum and be placed into the care of the Silent Sisters. _Do you understand me_?”

On hearing that, it had taken three footmen to drag her back to her chambers and force a glass of dreamwine down her screaming throat.

Two months later, the date had been set, Brienne's wedding gown made, the reception organised and a plan had formed. Silently, Brienne had been collecting odd assortments of men's clothes and working out the route that would lead her from her window in Lord Tarly's Town house, and onto the road North where she had an uncle in service at the Wall.

The night before, as the ladies drank their coffee, Lady Tarly patted Brienne's hand and gently suggested that she go to bed.

“It would not do for you to be too tired tomorrow dear,” she had said, “Go and have an early night,”

Brienne nodded numbly and obeyed without question. She rose softly and returned to her bedchamber. But she would not be sleeping that night.

Using the dinner knife she had snatched from the table, she severed off her hair so that it fell to her chin, and tugged on her clothes. Gathering the few meagre possessions that she could pawn off, she clambered out of the window and stole away into the night.

 


	2. chapter 2

“You would think,” Jaime mused to his brother beneath the din of music and chatter “That when the most eligible bachelor in Westeros holds a ball in search of a bride, _he_ would be most popular topic of conversation,”

Tyrion smirked, “Put out at being upstaged, brother?”

“Not at all. I do not doubt that Lady Brienne deserves her infamy, stealing out from her guardian’s house the night before her wedding. It must have been rather galling for Lord Tarly,”

“Delightfully so, Lady Olenna has been cackling about it all evening,”

Jaime smiled. “In truth I am quite impressed. It requires a certain type of courage to pull off a stunt like that,”

“I wager that you will be tempted to do the same in a few short months,” Tyrion chuckled, before casting an eye over the throng of ladies crowded in their Town house's ballroom. Every noble family had been invited, having all come to King's Landing for the Season, and each one had presented Jaime with daughters, nieces, cousins and sisters to be inspected and valued for his pleasure.

“So, have you made your choice yet brother?”

“Not as of yet,” he smirked and added with not a little smugness, “There is quite a few to choose from,”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “So there is,” he agreed grudgingly, “What of Lady Amerei Frey?” he suggested.

Jaime followed Tyrion's gaze to see a fair woman batting her eyelashes at him none too subtly. He pulled a face and shook his head.

“I think not,” he said.

“One of the Tyrell girls, perhaps? One of Lady Margaery's cousins,” 

Jaime grimaced. “Can you imagine Cersei's face if I were to marry a Tyrell?”

“I am trying to,” Tyrion chuckled, before turning serious, “Have you considered Lady Daenerys? I have thought her to be a most charming young lady, and extremely beautiful,”

Jaime's face turned dark and his fist clenched around the stem of his wine glass. “I will never marry a Targaryen,” he swore softly. As his eyes swept the ballroom, he could not see the beautiful and charming Lady Daenerys Targaryen, but on searching for a familiar glimpse of silver hair, his eyes were caught by one Rhaegar Targaryen. On seeing his old school friend, Jaime promptly turned his back.

“What the Seven is he doing here?” he growled.

“I dare say Cersei invited him,” Tyrion explained, “She has always had a... shall we say, _fondness,_ for Lord Rhaegar,”

Jaime snorted, “Don't be absurd. Of course she doesn't,”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at his brother's response, and swiftly changed the subject, before his brother did anything monumentally stupid and had the handsome Lord of Dragonstone cast out form his house. “Lady Sybelle Westerling has been making hints for her daughter Jeyne,”

“Isn't she promised to Robb Stark?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes at his brother's ignorance. “There was nothing formal, and Stark is now betrothed to Roslin Frey,”

The Westerlings were poor, and the Crag little more than a ruin. But Jaime needed no money, all he wanted was a compliant wife who would satisfy his father's lawyers and cause no trouble for himself and Cersei. In fact, the Westerling's situation was a point in their favour. They would be entirely dependant upon Jaime and grateful for his selection of their daughter. The Crag's close proximity to Casterly could also prove convenient for Jeyne to make regular visits back home.

Jaime cast a curious eye of Jeyne Westerling. She was a pretty enough girl, but her simply arranged brown locks and sweet, un-powdered face faded in contrast to Cersei's startling beauty. His sister was radiant tonight, glittering in a stunning gown of gold satin and crimson embroidery. Her powdered hair was piled high and arranged in a towering, monumental structure, complete with feathers and jewels.

“She's pretty enough, I suppose,” he said finally, “Though I fail to understand why Stark was so enamoured. She is hardly one to inspire the flames of passion,”

Tyrion shrugged. “I'm sure he had his reasons. Even if they are far from obvious,” he patted his brother's arm, “Besides, it isn't a passionate marriage you're looking for. It's a quick one,” he scowled, “Unless you want Joffrey to get his paws onto Casterly. He's already done enough damage at Storm's End, using that wretched act father got passed and leaving his people to starve. You don't want that to happen at Casterly as well, do you?”

Jaime grimaced. In truth, the fate of all the farmers surrounding Casterly Rock had been a secondary concern compared to Cersei. “Of course not,” he said defensively.

Tyrion was about to reply, but instead hastily made his excuses as their sister caught Jaime's eye and glided towards them. She tapped Jaime on the arm with her fan and hissed into his ear.

“Maybe next time you should specify that bodices are actually to be worn. It seems our darling Margaery could benefit with a reminder,”  
Jaime looked at the new Lady Baratheon, twinkling in a gown of sea green silk and gold roses piled into her hair. True, her gown was rather low, but then Cersei herself had always pushed such boundaries when she was young and could pull it off.

“And what is Sansa Stark wearing?” Cersei continued, “It is bad enough that her mother insists on wearing mourning like a spectre, but you would think that she would be sure her daughter was dressed in something other than last year's fashion. Especially considering their current financial situation. They cannot risk losing anymore standing in society than they already have,”

Jaime hummed in agreement. Lady Sansa's gown was severely out date, yet even so, she and her mother could outshine every lady in the room. Well, nearly every lady.

“You look beautiful tonight sister,” he whispered into her ear, blowing softly on the feathers that adorned her hair.

Cersei smiled behind her fan. “Have you heard the news of the Tarth girl?” she enquired.

“How could I not? Everyone is talking of it. I see that Tarly isn't here, his nose too out of joint I suppose,”

“He is a proud man,” Cersei agreed, taking delight along with the rest of the crowd over the great Lord's embarrassment, “Otherwise he would be throwing his daughter at you. The humiliation must simply be unbearable,” she sipped her wine, “Have you ever met Lady Brienne?”

“No, I have not,”

“I have. Awful lumbering creature. You would think she would be grateful that any man would agree to marry her,”

“Is she not her father's heir? She has no need to marry, not when she comes of age,”

Cersei let out a slight sigh. “If only that we could be so fortunate. Have you made your decision?”

Jaime stifled a sigh. He had no desire to discuss his future bride with Cersei. He reminded himself that the topic need not be taboo, Cersei was unlikely to be jealous. Any wife he may choose would merely be a means to an end.

“I think I have. The Lady Jeyne Westerling seems pliable, and I don't doubt her mother would be willing to have her overlook many things in return for making her Lady Lannister,”

Cersei's eyes flickered over Lady Jeyne , taking in her unadorned gown and simply dressed hair. She nodded with approval. Her brother's choice was ladylike and fair, but they both knew that Jeyne Westerling could never hold a candle to a lady such as Cersei.

Cersei nodded, her towering hair wobbling precariously as she did, “Will you ask her now?”

“I think not. I'm going to hit the tables,”

**#**

On her mother's orders, Jeyne had paid particular attention to her toilette that evening. Ever since Robb's visit, Jeyne had cloistered herself away in her bedroom and barely looked in the mirror. Her hair had become a bird's nest and her eyes and nose had turned a violent red, the tips of her nostrils sore and irritated from constant sniffing.

But tonight, Jeyne began preparations fours hours before the ball. She washed her hair, had the maid arrange it becomingly under the stern eye of her mother, and clothed herself in her best gown. The pretty yellow silk and lace dress had been made from an older dress of last year's fashion. There had been little money for new clothes so she had to make do with having her old one altered and hope that no one noticed. All the while, her mother nodded in approval, believing that all this effort was for Lord Lannister's sake.

No doubt every young lady in attendance of the Ball would be primping and fussing in hope of catching the eye of the handsome Lord, for who could turn down a man such as he? Handsome, cultured, dashing. Despite his reputation for getting into duels (or partially because of it) near every woman he met fell half in love with him.

But it wasn't the new Lord of Lannister that sent Jeyne rushing for a reflective surface to check her appearance, it was Robb. Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, conversing politely with the sweet and pretty Lady Roslin Frey.

Lord Walder Frey was a notorious miser, but clearly he had seen fit to provide his granddaughter with a new gown suitable for the Lord of Winterfell's betrothed. The stunning silver and blue gown had Jeyne fidgeting in her own shabbily re-made ballgown.

She watched hungrily as Robb gallantly swept a bow and kissed the hand of his betrothed. Jeyne remembered all the times Robb had smiled at her, and pressed his lips to her own. Was his touch for the Lady Roslin more gentle? More tender or passionate? She knew Robb's reasons for accepting Lord Frey's offer, and knew they were not for love. But Lady Roslin was such a divine creature, so lovely and graceful. Surely it was not beyond the realms of possibility for love to bloom between the pair.

She immediately regretted staring when Robb's eyes flickered round the room and met her own. They held each other's gaze, before Robb managed an uneasy smile, her response to which surprised herself as she promptly turned her back. She regretted her snub. She should have smiled in return, nodding graciously. She had never been one given to temper of insults, but how could she meet Robb's eyes when her own were rapidly filling with tears?

Suddenly, the crowds grew too great and the music too loud, and she searched frantically for her mother in the hopes that she would summon the carriage and take them home. An icy cold hand gripped her heart as she watched her mother converse with Lord Lannister, the latter running his eyes over her appraisingly.

She gathered up her skirts and hurried away in search of refuge, the pressing crowds of people and heavy smog of perfume and sweat further stinging her tender eyes. All around her, silk and feathers and satin in a rainbow of shades shone and shimmered behind a veil of tears. No matter which way she turned, she could find no way out.

Finally, she caught sight of an open door leading to the gardens, allowing a mercifully refreshing breeze into the cloying ball room. Throwing all sense of decorum aside, she yanked up her skirts and ran.

**#**

The only thing that ached more than her back were her feet. And so, even though she had been wary of strangers on her journey thus far, she had accepted with a relieved smile when a kindly faced man offered her a lift in his cart. She had managed to catch a lift here and there, and had made it as far as the Riverlands in roughly a week. She had spent her nights camping out in barns or the occasional inn if she was willing to risk it, but in truth she dare not do so too often. The less people aware of her journey, the better. She did not doubt that Ser Humfrey was looking for his heiress, and Lord Tarly's threat of an asylum still loomed over her shorn head.

Brienne dumped her meagre bag of possessions onto the back and clambered up next to it. She slumped down and let out an ecstatic sigh at finally being able to rest her sore limbs.

“Thank you very much,” she said without thinking, then clapping her hands over her mouth. Her shorn hair, mannish figure and dirt covered face had allowed her to keep up the guise of being a young man, but her voice had betrayed her to not only be a lady, but one of breeding.

The kind man who had offered her a lift whipped his head round in shock, but smiled at her and raised a single eyebrow.

“Tell me no lies and I'll ask you no questions,” he informed her with a wink. Brienne managed an uneasy smile and shifted in her seat.

“Thank you,” she said once more, “It was good of you to offer me a ride,”

Her driver had turned back round to watch the road. “I had thought you to be a young farm hand on his way to town. You get many of them round here, looking for work in factories. Ever since the Enclosure's Act, Lord Frey has been throwing family off the lands their people had farmed for centuries, and left them to starve,”

Brienne grimaced. Her father had hotly contested the act and made to sure protect the smallfolk of their Island, but she did not doubt Ser Wagstaff would have gobbled up the lands of Tarth as greedily as he did his dinner, and belch out the smallfollk to fend for themselves.

“My father once said that men such as Lord Frey have no right to hold the titles they do. That it is their duty to protect the poorest of their land and any one that does not should be stripped of his title. They are little more than thieves and the most vile of criminals as their thievery is tantamount to murder,” she said.

“I think I like your father,”

Brienne smiled sadly. “I did as well,

The man caught the use of past tense. “My condolences,” he hesitated slightly, “I know that I promised to ask no questions, but may I enquire as to where you are going? Or to whom?”

“My uncle,” she replied, “He lives up North,”

The North was a large place, Brienne thought, she could risk telling him that. He seemed reassured that she had some semblance of a plan. He nodded, and a contented silence fell upon them.

“May I know your name?” she asked at last.

“I am Septon Meribald,”

“Septon!” she cried, the only Septons she knew of lived in pretty cottages and kept chickens.

Meribald shot her a wry grin. “I warrant a lady such as yourself has no experience of a Septon such as I,”

“I am no lady,” Brienne said sadly.

“Oh, but I think you are. You hair, clothing, visage and stature does well to disguise you. But the moment you open your voice you betray yourself to be a lady of breeding. I may have found you trekking the wilderness, but you were born for Drawing Rooms and panniers,”

“No one is born for wearing panniers, least of all I. I thank the Seven they have gone out of fashion. I only ever had to wear them to my presentation at Court,” she shook her head ruefully, “I looked ridiculous, my skirts stuck out a metre from either side. Hoops are bad enough, but the panniers required for court dress are simply monstrous. And so impractical, I am clumsy and awkward enough without strapping two gargantuan baskets to my hips,” the slight smile on her lips died away as the memory of a cold voice and hard hand stung her cheek, “My old Governess, Septa Roelle always did tell me I was about as graceful as a cow in silk. And slow. When my father was away, she would force me to wear a board strapped against my back to keep me standing straight, and once she even locked me in a closet for days on end in the hope the darkness would stunt my growth. Father dismissed her immediately on finding out. I would have told him earlier, but she scared me so that I dare not speak out,”

Here, Septon Meribald's face turned grave. “Then she was no true woman of the Gods. Those who have entered into the service of the Gods are obliged to help those in their charge, and seek to protect them. Even if it means breaking a few rules,”

Brienne frowned as the Septon drew up outside an old, dilapidated barn. “Where are we?” she asked, tightening her grip on her bag of possessions.

“Why my Lady, we are at my Church. And if you are so inclined, I would like to introduce you to my flock,”

 


	3. chapter 3

Jeyne pressed her aching forehead against the cool glass, the throbbing and pounding of her head worsened by the bumps and jolts of the carriage. And by her mother. Yes, her mother most of all.

“For the love of the Seven Jeyne sit up straight, your posture is atrocious. You must carry yourself like a young lady, not a laundry maid. If you do not cease your slumping you will develop a hump, and then who will marry you?”

Jeyne stared obstinately out the window, watching the street roll past.

“Look at me when I am talking to you, Jeyne! Your behaviour was atrocious tonight, I was most appalled. You stormed out of the ball room like a hoyden! I cannot comprehend what caused you to behave in such a manner,”

Jeyne whipped her head round to stare at her mother incredulously.

“Cannot comprehend.... Did you not see Robb... Lord Stark? Dancing with Lady Roslin?”

“Indeed I did. And to put it succinctly, I am relieved to know that one of you has seen sense and put an end to the dalliance,” she grasped Jeyne's hand between her own, her sharp talons digging through Jeyne's cream silk glove, “The match was a folly to begin with. The Starks are penniless and our family is reliant upon you to make a good match, if we are to maintain any sort of position in good society,”

“But I love him Mama!” she cried, feeling like a twelve year old.

“And do you not love your family? Do you not love me, nor your brothers and sister? We can barely cover your brothers' school fees, and there is nothing for your sister's dowry. Do you not care? Or are you so selfish that you are willing to cast all that aside for a childhood dalliance?”

“Of course not,” Jeyne mumbled, turning back to her window, she turned to face her mother sullenly, “If you disapproved of the match so, why did you not put an end to it?”

“Because this has been your second season and still you have had no prospects, it seemed Lord Stark was the best your were going to get,”

“Well, now we are back where we're started. We are poorer than ever and I still have no prospects,”

Lady Westerling drew herself up, a smile flickering over her lips. “That is where you are wrong,” she announced with barely concealed triumph, “Lord Lannister approached me this evening in view of discussing marriage terms, to you!”

“Me?” Jeyne eye's widened, “Why would Lord Lannister want to marry me? He could have any woman he desires,”

“He said he thought you sweet, and pliable. You must do all you can to cultivate that image,”

Jeyne felt a stirring of dismay. What young lady would want more? A husband who admires her pliability. “But you always said that I must avoid socialising with Lady Baratheon and the Lannisters. You told me my reputation would never weather the scandals attached to them,”

Lady Westerling scoffed. “It is different if you marry him! Foolish girl. Lord Lannister is a man, his reputation is not so delicate. And when he inherits, he shall be the wealthiest man in Westeros,” she trailed off with a sigh, “And you will be his wife, the grandest Lady in society. None will be equal, not even Lady Roslin Frey!” she smirked conspiratorially.

Jeyne managed a weak smile over that. Though her heart still yearned for Robb, she had to concede such a suit was hopeless. They both had duties to their families, before all others. And Casterly Rock was no poor consolation prize. She had visited the great estate herself many a times and never once was she not overawed by its beauty and magnificence. And it was by the sea, she had grown up to the sound of the waves and the gulls, Winterfell was so far in land. And Lord Lannister.... he was exceedingly handsome, with his luscious golden hair and his jaw. Surely, when he could have married a lady of far greater social standing than she, he must have had a reason to single her out before all others. She clenched her hands in her lap, perhaps Lord Lannister had come to love her form afar? What other reason could he possibly have, when there were so many other ladies to choose from that were far more suitable.

**#**

Brienne hesitantly followed Septon Meribald into his 'church'. Soft light flickered from the centre of the room, where a fire burned. The dim rays of light revealed snatches of the faces of roughly twelve young children. As Brienne's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see how their bones poked through their skin, how their cheeks were hollow and how their large hungry eyes gazed out from too small faces.

“Who are these children?” she asked eventually in a hushed voice.

“Orphans,” Meribald replied, setting down a sack, catching the eye of every child in the room as they sat huddled in clumps. “Their parents worked the lands here, but now they have no home nor family. When they grow, they shall have no land to work, and if it weren't for me, no food for their bellies,”

“So you take them in, feed them?”

“Aye, and clothe them and shelter them,”

Meribald made his way to a snug corner of the barn, where a pile of rags had been dumped. Brienne hesitated awkwardly by the door for a moment, before going to join him. As she moved, she was aware of the hungry eyes following after. Upon reaching Meribald's side, Brienne saw the lump of rags move and a skeletal hand creep out. Merbiald took and clasped it firmly in his own.

“How now Willow?” he said, giving her hand a squeeze “Feeling any better?” The tiny, grubby girl coughed in response and shuddered, huddling once more under her blankets. Another girl moved over and pressed her hand to her forehead. “Her fever's gotten worse,” she said, “She needs medicine. And she needs you to tend her, I can only do so much,”

Meribald nodded gravely. “I understand, and I promise to do all I can for your sister,”

The girl shot Brienne a suspicious look.

“Who is that?” she demanded. She was a tall, angular creature, but otherwise she seemed hale and hearty. Behind her, another girl lurked. This one was half her size and, to Brienne's dismay, had bruises littered across her neck and around both eyes.

“This is a friend, Jeyne, who I hope may be staying with us a while. So I expect you to treat her with every courtesy,”

“Oh no,” Brienne said quickly, shaking her head, “I cannot encroach on your hospitality,”

“I must insist, my Lady. The North is a great distance and I fear you shall not make it if you continue in this manner. Allow me to offer you shelter so that you may rest a while, and once you have you may take one of my horses to complete your journey. I find I need only one,”

Brienne shook her head adamantly. “I cannot. You have already shown me greater kindness than I could ever hope to repay-”  
“Indeed I have not. For I intend to ask a service of you that shall greatly repay any kindness I have or may show you,”

Brienne desisted in her objections and listened intently. She was eager to help this kind man in any way possible. His benevolence in helping these children was insurmountable , and the offer of a horse extremely tempting.

Septon Meribald went onto explain. “Tonight I shall embark on a venture that; if successful, shall provide me with the means to feed these children for a least a moon's turn. However, I find myself loathe to leave them at night and it would please me greatly if you were to remain here and watch over them, and see that they come to no harm,”

Brienne nodded rapidly, this service she would perform willingly. Although, she could not deny some confusion. “What business do you have that will keep you out at this light hour?”

“In two hours hence a carriage shall pass onto Lord Frey's lands, carrying one Lord Baelish, a colleague of Lord Frey who helped pass the act that both you and I find so reprehensible. I intend to meet with the gentleman and have him repay some of the debt that he owes to the people of this land,”

Brienne knew Lord Baelish, a man whose amiable smile hid a forked tongue dripping with insincerity. “What makes you think that Lord Baelish would willingly part with his money?”

Septon Meribald smiled wryly, and from his sack emerged both a simple black mask, and a pistol. “Well,” he replied, “I believe the pistol shall greatly aide me in convincing him. It usually does,”  
Brienne blanched in horror at the sight. “You're a Highwayman!” she cried.

“You heard what I said about helping those less fortunate, that sometimes doing so may require you break a few rules. And do you truly believe it to be theft, when I am merely taking money back from those who had stolen it in the first place? You said so yourself Lord Frey and his ilk are little more than thieves,” he regarded her seriously, “Now, will you help me or not?”

Brienne stared at the pistol in his hand, and gazed round at the hungry pairs of eyes staring back at her. All her life she had been well fed, it had only been these last few days that she come to comprehend true poverty. The dull aching in her stomach during that time had driven her near to madness, how would it be to suffer in such a way for a lifetime. She found herself nodding her head. “Yes,” she said, “I shall help you,”

After all, even if it be a hanging offence to be a Highwayman, Brienne knew that what was taking place tonight was a purer form of justice than any executed within a court.

**#**

Robb was chuckling lightly as he deftly ate eggs with one hand and read the latest letter form Theon in the other, carefully keeping his cuffs clean of egg yolk. Theon was his one of his oldest friends. They had attended the same school, university and even embarked on their Grand Tour together. Ever since his mother's death, Theon has spent his holidays with the Starks at Winterfell, and had only now returned to Pyke for his father's funeral and to inspect the estate he had been left.

The letter Theon wrote was crude, and near offensive. He had deemed fit to write on Robb's engagement, and had made lewd remarks on Robb's betrothed that would have earned him a clout round the ear if he had been present. As it was, Theon's unpolished and consistently vulgar manner was reassuring to Robb, who had treasured every opportunity to laugh and smile ever since his father had died, and even more so since he had broken his betrothal to Jeyne.

Jeyne had wept when he told her. He had always loved how honest and genuine she was in her affections, how easily she revealed herself to him. Yet that meant not only did he have full access to her laughter and smiles, but also to her tears. He had watched as Jeyne broke down upon the lover's seat that adorned her mother's parlour, and choked and gasped into her lace handkerchief. He had to watch in stony silence, forcing himself to resist from the temptation of storming towards her and gathering her in his arms.

“I had thought,” she said finally, between dry rasping sobs, “That you had come to propose. Mother thought so also. That is why she was willing to leave us unchaperoned,”

That revelation had been a blow to the gut, but Robb stood firm and reiterated his explanation of duty and necessity, whilst Jeyne finally composed herself to convince him to leave. As he did, he had lingered in the doorway and turned uneasily to face her, one last time.

“Jeyne,” he began, “I truly do wish you all the best. And I pray to the Old Gods and the New that your tender heart may open itself up to another man, one who will return your affections and prove himself to be worthier than I,”

It was only when the smudge appeared on the page that Robb realised he had inadvertently begun crying at the breakfast table. He quickly wiped back his tears and chuckled as though his tears were ones of mirth, lest the Stark name be dishonoured by having a Lord who wept openly into his toast.

Noting all eyes were on him, he hastily stowed his letter up his sleeved and directed the attention towards his mother.

“Anything interesting in the papers?” he asked, nodding to the periodical in her hand.

Lady Catelyn flicked through the pages. “Lord Frey's estate and surrounding lands are being plagued by a particularly elusive Highwayman,” she noted, before turning to the society pages, “Lady Leonette Tyrell has had a little girl and Talla Tarly is to be wed,”

“Let's hope her father is more successful in ensuring the marriage goes through this time,” their cousin Jon noted, winking at Arya who had taken Lady Brienne's midnight escape to heart.

Catelyn pursed her lips and went back to the paper, faltering slightly as she read aloud, “And Lord Jaime Lannister has announced his betrothal to Lady Jeyne Westerling,”

Robb's head jerked upwards, aware and uncaring that his family were staring at him and his egg covered fork had clattered to the ground.

“What?” he demanded.

“Lord Lannister is to marry Lady Jeyne, Robb, “Catelyn said gently.

Sansa reached out and placed a soft hand on Robb's arm. “You know she must get married at some point,” she pointed out, “And Lord Lannister is a fine match,”

But Robb could not stand to have Sansa touch him, and jerked away from her hands were poison.

“ _A man worthier than I,”_ he thought bitterly. Lannister had a reputation, as all Lannisters did, his own was for recklessly getting into duels and even potentially spear heading the mutiny against Lord Aerys Targaryen, under whom he had served during the wars in Essos. Lannister was arrogant, rude and rash. His brother was a lecherous little beast and his sister a cold, vile woman. And now Jeyne; his sweet, tender Jeyne, was to be thrown to him like a virgin to be sacrificed on the altar of her family's ambitions.

He swallowed as he felt his slimy eggs crawl their way back up his throat, and stormed out of the room. Jeyne, dear Jeyne, to be wed to a Lannister! It was not to be borne.

 

 


	4. chapter 4

Jaime ran a critical eye along the fine black stallion. It truly was a beauty, a shining black coat with a white star on its face, between two startlingly intelligent eyes. Its conformation was perfect, an arched neck holding his handsome face proudly aloft, sloping shoulders and powerful hindquarters. The stallion's build screamed of its strength and endurance. He nodded at Clegane to trot him up and down to allow him a better look. His paces were perfect.

“He's a fine creature,” he announced, “Where did Joff get him?”

“Off Willas Tyrell,” Clegane grunted, “But the damn creature didn't take to kindly to having Joffrey in the saddle, walloping him with his whip and kicking him in the ribs. Now he refuses to let anyone on his back,”

“Joff can take the steadiest horse and ruin it,” Jaime said, noting the way the sensitive stallion's eyes flickered back and forth as he danced agitatedly on the spot. He went out to give it a pat, but it shied away, nostrils flaring.

“The last straw came when his Lordship had a group of friends over and they took turns trying to mount the beast. They were well in their cups at the time and the blasted thing kept rearing and bucking them off,”

“I don't blame him, who wants a drunken rider jumping around on their back?”

“Well, Lord Baratheon ended up with a broken leg and a bite in the arm. Lady Baratheon has ordered me to take the stallion to the hounds,”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “And yet you offer him to me in order to save the creature's life, at the risk of your own livelihood? How very touching,”

“You take the thing and turn it to sausage meat for all I care, I just want to money,”

“That's rather less touching. Although I must ask, why should I spend a silver stag on a horse that I can't ride, let alone the price you're asking? I didn't even come looking for a stallion,”

Jaime had in fact attended the horse auction in the hopes of finding a suitable mare for his intended. He had thought that a pretty, well mannered mount would make a fine engagement present and bring a smile to Lady Jeyne's face. When she and her mother has called at his town house yesterday in order to discuss the particulars, Jeyne had been quiet and downcast. She smiled at him and spoke politely enough when questioned, but whenever she thought no one was looking a cloud of melancholy would descend over her face. Her mother, on the other hand, looked rather as though she was itching to examine the silver ware on display, and was using all her restraint not to.

“You can take him or leave him, but if I don't find a buyer soon he's for the dogs,”

Jaime took another look at the horse. The stallion clearly had terrific breeding , as all horses from the Tyrell stables had. And Clegane's need for a rapid exchange meant he was getting the mount ludicrously cheap. If nothing else, he would make a good sire. Fortunately, despite Cersei planning to return with Jaime to the Rock, she had little love for riding and rarely went near the stables.

“Alright,” he decided, “I'll take the beast. What's his name?”

Clegane handed over the reins. “Stranger,” he said.

Jaime blinked . “Joffrey's idea was it?”

Clegane nodded.

“Why am I not surprised,” he tried to give the stallion another stroke, only for it tense up beneath his touch, ears flat against his back. ' _Th_ _e poor beast,”'_ Jaime thought, ' _T_ _his horse has got as good as bloodlines as some of the oldest families in Westeros. And yet a year in the hands of a Lannister had broken him,'_ he grimaced, ' _Let us hope that my future wife is more fortunate,'_

#

Jeyne had always hoped to wear a yellow wedding dress. Her family's house colours were yellow, and it suited her complexion. A delicate silk dress with frothy white lace and decorated with pearls and little cockle shells. She would wear ribbons in her hair and although the train might drag, she would feel as though she were walking on air as she was led to the altar. There, Robb would be waiting for her, with her bride's cloak in hand.

Even when her dream of marrying Robb was shattered, she had still hoped that this one detail of her dream day may be allowed. Her mother had put an end to that.

“You cannot wear that shade with your red bride's cloak,” Lady Sybelle snapped, “And it is far too childish. You are to marry the Lord of the West, not some landed knight!”

Jeyne dropped the bolt of cloth she had suggested with surprisingly little reluctance. It had been foolish of her to believe that something as insignificant as a gown could bring her a modicum of happiness that she had envisioned from her perfect day. Whatever she wore, it would be Lord Lannister waiting for her down the aisle. Not Robb. It was Lady Roslin whose shoulders would be graced with the tasteful grey cloak lined with soft white fur, whereas she was to be engulfed in blood red.

Jeyne's choice of trimmings and cut were dismissed also. She had requested a gown similar to the simple and girlish ones that the new Lady Baratheon wore, making them all the rage in society.

“They look like nothing but a fancified shepherdess's garb,” her mother had scoffed, “I care little for the concoctions Lady Margaery has been parading about in. Lady Blackwood called the other day, and she told me that Lady Margaery had visited her wearing some muslin creation that was little more than underwear,” she raised a long finger to her daughter's face on seeing Jeyne open her mouth, “And do not even think of copying Lady Daenerys. I will have no daughter of mine parading about like a wanton,”

“I have just completed a few commissions for the Dowager Lady Baratheon. She is trying to re-introduce panniers,” the dressmaker put in timidly.

Jeyne was unsurprised to hear this. Lady Cersei and her daughter in-law were in constant competition to be the main leader in society, the world of fashion was just one of their playing grounds. Lady Margaery had opted to show of her youthful prettiness with gentle, milkmaid inspired dresses. All lace and ribbons and pretty pastels. Meanwhile the jealous Lady Cersei; who was so precious about her standing in society, naturally favoured rich satins and velvets, draped over panniers that forced all around her to stand back in reverence.

In the end a heavy gold satin was decided on, just yellow enough to pay homage to House Westerling as well as Lannister. Instead of ribbons, ostrich feathers were ordered to adorn her hair. The sheer quantity of fabric required to mimic Lady Cersei's style elevated the cost from extravagant to monstrous. At least jewels were not an issue. Lord Lannister had sent her an exquisite gold and ruby choker. Her mother and little sister , Eleyna, had cooed and fussed on seeing the red droplets glitter on her neck, whilst Jeyne just sat there and choked, the cold metal biting into her skin.

She wore the necklace now, so that they could see how it looked with the fabric of her gown. Her skin beneath the choker was slick with sweat. She had been stuck inside the stuffy dress shop for three hours, shopping for her trousseau. A rainbow of colours and fabrics swarmed around her, whilst she stood at the centre, a pillar of black in her velvet walking suit. Her attire had been made for her when they were in mourning for her father, and since then she had to make use of it for every day wear. Why did it seem so appropriate that she would buy her wedding clothes in mourning?

“Mother,” she said, breaking through Lady Sybelle's and the dressmaker's conversation, “Would it be acceptable if I were to step out momentarily? I feel rather faint,” she explained. Lady Sybelle examined her daughter's flushed face and nodded. Jeyne stepped down from the stool and smoothed down the creases in her skirt. She nodded at the dressmaker politely.

“Pray, excuse me,”

Jeyne stepped out into the bustling streets with a sigh of relief. In a fit of rebellion she ripped off her bonnet and tore out her hair pins, allowing the brisk wind the run through her chestnut curls. After luxuriating in the feeling of allowing her hair to blow free in the wind, she rammed her bonnet onto her birds-nest of curls. She strode down the street, the heels of her boots clicking against the tiles, carefully picking her way round piles of horse manure.

Jeyne came to a halt outside a small Sept, tucked away at the end of a street. She faltered at the doorway and paused momentarily to buy a posy of red roses from a withered old lady shivering in a tattered shawl. The roses were drooping with petals falling off. Jeyne didn't ask for a price and simply pressed a handful of copper pennies and two silver stags into the lady's shrivelled hand, before entering the silent Sept.

The Sept was empty, lit only by the flickering candles and dim light shining through the stained glass windows. Golden flecks of dust floated in the trail of sunlight that lingered over the Maiden's face. Jeyne softly made her way down the aisle, the size of the Sept meaning she had reached the foot of the Maiden in ten steps. Jeyne stared into the Maiden's face and let her hand linger over the ruby droplets that chained her throat. Kneeling, Jeyne recited a prayer.

“Jeyne,” a low voice murmured.

Jeyne stood and spun, blinking in order to ensure that the face before her was not simply a trick of the dull light. “Robb,” she whispered.

There he stood, tall and silent beneath the statue of the Stranger. He spoke no word but instead opened his arms. Jeyne felt her face widen into a smile as she rushed into Robb's warm embrace and allowed him hold her against his chest. She looked into his face, to see him beaming down at her. His heart was thudding rapidly against her own, and he drew back in order to take her by the hand and pull her back down the aisle. Jeyne dropped her posy of roses and dashed over them in her haste to follow Robb, leaving them there, crushed and trampled at the foot of the Stranger.

**#**

The bay mare shifted beneath her, picking up on her unease. Behind her thick black mask, Brienne swallowed down the lump stuck in her throat. She adjusted her grip on her hands and the reins, both of which were slipping and sliding in her sweaty palms. Beside her, a young boy lay in wait on his pony. They had buried themselves on the bushes, neither one talking. Only the sound of their stifled breathing cut through the night's silence.

“My Lady,” her companion whispered, “Do you hear anything?” Podrick Payne had once been a stable hand, working alongside his uncle in a farmer's stables. Out of all the orphans taken in by Septon Meribald, he was the only one who could manage a horse. It was for this reason alone that Pod had been chosen to accompany her on her expedition that night. During the night that Meribald had left Brienne in charge of the children, little Willow Heddle's fever had only gotten worse. And when he returned, it was with pittance. Lord Baelish had either been forewarned of the potential robberies, or was just particularly insightful, for he had hidden his valuables and produced nothing but a purse of pennies and a cheap watch. Not near enough for `Willow's medicine. “Willow is the third to catch this fever,” Pod had confided in Brienne, “That's why her sister is so worried about her getting medicine. Neither of the other two got any,” Brienne didn't need any clarification of what happened to the other two children, even if there remaining possessions had been snatched away, leaving no trace nor reminder of the two.

Septon Meribald did not come away empty handed, however. He had managed to overhear Lord Baelish mention the comings and goings of several visiting lords, including a nephew by name of Black Walder, who had made his fortune in the slave trade across the Narrow Seas. An outcast from society and his family, but a wealthy one. As Septon Meribald related this news, he turned to Brienne with a serious look in his eye.

“You must forgive me for the impropriety of this request my Lady,” he informed her, “But this opportunity is too great to pass up, and Willow desperately requires treatment. As it is, I can leave her no longer,” Brienne watched in silence as Septon Meribald pressed a pistol into her hand.

“It only has one shot,” he informed her, “to fire a warning. The mere threat of it should be enough after that,”

Brienne had not spoken her agreement in so many words, she had simply looked momentarily at the shaking child sleeping on the ground and knew she had no choice. And so, here she was. Masked and armed and waiting for the telltale clatter of hooves and rattle of a carriage.

Then they saw it. Hurtling out of the darkness, its pair of lamps blinding her momentarily. Hands shaking, Brienne dug her heels into her mare's side and spurred her forward. Pod followed her lead. Brienne squeezed the trigger, causing her horse to spook and dance beneath her, as the shot exploded above the coachmen's head. He drew to a halt with a curse, and Brienne cantered a stride forward, placing her fussing horse beside the carriage. Podrick rode ahead, blocking the road and keeping a hear out.

Her pistol aimed at the window, Brienne spoke in a harsh, muffled voice “Your money, or your life,”

“What is the meaning of this?” Walder Rivers demanded, “How dare you! Are you aware of whom you are speaking to?”

“Aye. I am aware that I am addressing one of the many bastard sons of Lord Walder Frey, the same Walder Frey who robbed the people of this land their livelihood to line his pockets. And that the Rivers I have the pleasure of addressing has deepened his own coffers by robbing others of their freedom! I am aware that is who I am speaking to. Now are you aware of whom you are talking to?” she waved her pistol, “I shall give you a hint, they are holding a gun to your head,”

“You'd dare not fire that,”

“Dare I not? Ridding the world of a rat such as you can hardly damage my immortal soul. I can only think that the Gods would be glad to send you to hell if I gave them the chance. Now,” she instructed him a calmer voice, “Would you be so kind as to hand over any valuables that you have on you at present. Gold would be preferred, but watches and other such articles are acceptable,”

Fists shaking, Black Walder dug around in his pockets and produced a satisfyingly stuffed pursed. Yet as Brienne went to reach for it, he seized her wrist in his meaty paw and tugged her sharply forwards. She held her seat on her horse by hugging it with her legs and brought her pistol down on Black Walder's head. He relinquished his grip and she snatched the purse, before urging her frantically pacing horse around and galloping off into the woods, Pod hot on her heels.

Brienne grabbed a hold of the reins and weaved her way in and out of the trees, the dark silhouettes bursting out suddenly from the black night sky as she and Pod galloped towards them.

It was only when they were well away from the main road, that they allowed themselves to rein in their mounts and take deep, ragged breaths. Beneath her woollen mask, Brienne's face was hot and red, and she was sure that Pod's was too. She ripped off her mask and took a grateful gulp of water, before passing her flask over to Pod who glugged the drink down and splashed some over his face. As he passed it back to her, their wide eyes met and trembling hands touched. They stared at each other, lost for words, before breaking out into helpless gales of laughter.

 


	5. chapter 5

There was enough gold in Black Walder's fat leather purse to pay for Willow's medicine, and then some. When Brienne and Podrick stumbled into the barn, flushed and beaming, the orphans huddled round them and watched in awe as Pod poured out the glittering pile of gold with a flourish. 

Septon Meribald swiftly saw to Willow's treatment, whilst two of the older boys were sent out with a small fraction of the purse. They came back, arms overflowing with bread and meat and milk and new blankets, which the children eagerly fell upon, some of whom were near tears at such bounty. In group they huddled together beneath the blankets and devoured the feast, the first proper meal they had since their parents died. Despite the gnawing in her stomach, Brienne held back from eating and allowed the children to indulge their hunger. The smile pulling at her lips stretched her face unnaturally wide. Never seen before dimples graced her cheeks, making her look sweet and girlish, for all her height.  Not once had Brienne ever smiled with such bliss, not even when her father was alive and she was living in comfort and luxury. To help these children, to actually be useful for once, was a gift more priceless than any gold or rubies.

Septon Meribald broke away from Willow's tiny form, and joined Brienne.

"You are not hungry?" he asked softly.

Brienne shook her head, "I can wait," she assured him. 

"If anyone deserves to indulge themselves, it is you," he pointed out, "You earned this,"

"And that is more than enough for now to get me by," she said with a hint of bewildered laughter.

"I do not understand,"

Brienne shook her head, grinning ruefully, "Clearly, you were never raised to be a lady. Spend the next few months shut inside a Drawing Room, with nothing to do but wear dresses and fail to look pretty. And then go and do something helpful, truly helpful. Trust me, you will understand,"

#

The Godswood in King's Landing was too crowded, too public. Too many passers by deciding to wile away an afternoon dawdling through the ancient wood. Close at hand were a multitude of Septs, quiet and discrete, yet those would have required a Septon and a license and an abundance of other such formalities. Including the permission of Jeyne's mother. And so they fled from the Capital, atop Robb's phaeton for the ancient and abandoned Godswood of Harrenhal.

Marriage under the shadow of the crumbling castle was hardly the most romantic of settings, with its bats and and the twisted, skeletal branches of the trees. Robb tried to suppress his unease as they stood before the Weirwood Heart Tree with its spiteful, terrible face. The Weirwood trees he had grown alongside with never held such cruelty, they had been familiar, distant perhaps, but never malevolent.

Robb had always hoped to be married at the Godswood of Winterfell. He would have his mother and brothers and sisters beside him. And the memory of his father stronger than ever, his presence echoing from the ancient wood.

It was just them at Harrenhal, with was no one else there but a handful of witnesses they had cobbled together from a nearby farm. And yet, he could still feel his father watching him.

It did not bring him the comfort he had expected, not with the hateful Weirwood Heart Tree glaring down over the pair. The rest of his family were never far from his mind either, Sansa in particular. It was Sansa's face that he saw as Jeyne breathlessly recited her vows, not his bride's. Sansa reciting her vows, face hard and jaw set, with the Bolton boy smiling his shark like grin at her. Robb blinked and shook his head. He tried to focus on Jeyne's face.

“Robb?” Jeyne, squeezed his hand, waiting expectantly, her head tilted upwards. Robb blinked once more and pressed his lips to hers. As Jeyne rested her warm body against his own, Robb felt the tension in his shoulders melt away. He folded her further into his arms, smiling at her flushed face as they broke away. Her hair was bedraggled, her black velvet suit rumpled and she was as beautiful as he had ever seen her. Unable to resist, he reached out and pulled Jeyne back into his arms and pressed another kiss to her swollen lips. He refused to relinquish her, not until the toothless farmer officiating whistled.

“If you two are eager to get on with your wedding night, there is an inn not far from here,” he belched before continuing, “Now get on your way before you desecrate a place of the Gods,” Jeyne laughed bashfully and rested her head against Robb's chest, smiling up at him. “I suppose we better. Your father may have been touched that we held our wedding in a Godswood, but less so the bedding,”

Robb's arms stiffened at the mention of his father. “No,” agreed, whispering into her hair, “I'd dare say he'd disapprove,” he tipped his head at their guests, “I thank you most kindly for being here today,” he told them, “But we must be on our way. We must make haste for the inn,”

“I don't blame you for hurrying,” the toothless farmer put in, smiling at Jeyne, “That's a fair little lady you've got with you. I wish you a lifetime of happiness,”

The farmer's words were kind, and not near as lecherous as Robb had feared when he first saw the man smile at his bride. Even so, he had to suppress a shudder at the sight of him, as well as the rest of their guests. The looming trees threw shadows over their faces, turning them dark and skeletal. To see their beaming faces was to feel as though skulls were grinning at him. Once more, on seeing her husband distracted, Jeyne murmured his name and called him back down to Earth. With her warm chestnut hair catching the last few rays of sunlight to pass through the trees, she allowed Robb to take her hand and lead her back to the phaeton.

**#**

“Well, are you not heartbroken? Abandoned? Offended,” Tyrion inquired, smirking into his cup of tea. Jaime lifted up the letter once more,unable to resist the grin spreading over his face.

“Offended? I'm delighted  **!”** he laughed , beaming with pleasure and stuffing his hands into his waistcoat pockets. “Who would have thought it? The honourable Ned Stark's son running off with an engaged woman. It's delicious,”

“I'm beginning to think that you care more about spiting Ned Stark's dead spirit than your own bride,” Tyrion mused.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Jaime reclined against his chaise lounge, his eyes half closed in bliss. “There is only one dead man I find I can feel even more pleasure in spiting,”

“Father?”

“Father,” Jaime confirmed, “I suppose my being snubbed by a penniless chit of a girl in favour of an equally penniless Stark is humiliating enough. And so, I find myself most content, and lacking in any grievances,”

“You also find yourself lacking a bride and inheritance,” Tyrion pointed out.

Jaime shrugged carelessly. “I shall find another wife easily enough. Who would reject me?”

“Apart from Lady Jeyne?”

“Apart from her,” Jaime conceded, “Oh well, marriage to the Westerlings is no great loss,”

“M'Lord,” the Butler announced, “Lady Sybelle Westerling begs an audience,”

“Talk of the Devil,” Tyrion smirked.

Jaime sighed and reluctantly dragged himself to his feet,”Show her in,” he ordered.

Lady Sybelle Westerling had always managed to look composed and elegant, making do with her limited budget for wardrobe. Even her husband's death left her unmoved, a fact Cersei had noted with much esteem. Yet today, she stormed into the parlour, red faced and trembling. Her gloves were mismatched, the bonnet of her lace half ripped off, and the hem of her gown had been torn. Clearly the lady had dressed in much haste.

“Lady Westerling,” he smiled through gritted teeth, “What an unexpected pleasure. Pray tell me, what brings you to my home in such a state?”

Trembling from head to foot, Lady Sybelle spluttered incredulously. “What can bring me.... How can you jest at such a moment? The honour of my house has been besmirched! You must do something,”

Jaime sunk back into his seat and raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? And what do you expect me to do?” “Track them down and bring her back! They may yet not be wed. It is not too late for you to demand Lord Robb returns Jeyne,”

“And why should I do that? I am sorry if this causes you any dismay, but I must inform you that I hold no special disposition towards your daughter. Her greatest virtue she possessed that I could make out was her convenience . She was close at hand and willing. Now, as you can see, she is not close at hand. In fact, I have no idea as to your daughter's whereabouts . And considering that she has eloped with Lord Robb, that would lead me to believe that she is not entirely willing. Would you not say, Tyrion?”

“Oh, indubitably,” Tyrion agreed, “Unless this is some new courtship ritual I am unaware of, where the groom is required to forcibly drag his bride down the aisle,”

“I know that beyond the Wall, bride stealing is common. But here, further South, I have always considered ourselves above such barbaric practises,” Jaime added gravely.

“It is not just my family who has been shamed. What do you think people will say when they hear you have been jilted?”

“How wonderful,” Tyrion suggested, “Now there is a chance for my daughter?”

Jaime watched in amusement as Lady Sybelle's face turned puce, and stormed out in a flurry of petticoats.

“Poor woman,” Tyrion sighed, “I truth I feel rather sorry for her,”

“I don't. The only person I feel sorry for is Lady Roslin,”

“Do you think she held a great attachment to Stark?”

“I think she held a great attachment to escaping from her father, now she is stuck with him once more,” Jaime explained. He started in his seat, a glint sparkling in his eyes. “Oh, Tyrion. Can you imagine it? Poor, beautiful Lady Roslin. Abandoned by her betrothed and left in the clutches of her cruel father, waiting to be rescued by her shining knight,”

Tyrion shook his head. “And you plan to be that knight?”

“Why not. The only way Stark can be even more shamed, would be if a  _Lannister_ would be the one to come along and tidy up his mess,” he chuckled, “It would be worth having Lord Frey for a good father,”

 

**#**

It was the closest thing Sansa had ever had to a tantrum. On hearing her mother read out from the letter left on Robb's dresser, she had surprised even herself by roughly scraping her chair back from the breakfast table and storming from the room,

“Sansa!” Lady Catelyn had cried, “Where are you going?”

“Walking,” she responded brusquely, ignoring her mother's orders to dress warmly against the storm raging outside. Wind and rain slapped against Sansa's pale cheeks, but she felt neither. The cold could not touch her when her very soul burned. Like the beat of a drum, one thought throbbed and pulsed in her mind over and over.

How could Robb do this to her?

He ran. He ran from his duties and his family, and left the burden of saving Winterfell upon her shoulders. He would never have asked this or Arya, no one in her family would ever expect Arya to make the sacrifice they were demanding of Sansa. But then, Sansa had always been the dutiful daughter.

She would strive for perfection and in her efforts to become the perfect lady, Sansa had allowed herself to be shelved as a precious ornament, to be taken out and admired when it was agreeable.

And then sold.

She found herself walking past the Sept where she would worship with her mother. Each time she would ask the Maiden to send her a husband who was handsome and gallant, but clearly the Maiden did not heed her words. Instead she approached her family's ancient Godswood. The carved faces of the Weirwood trees that had once frightened her so gazed down on her. Sansa blinked, remembering the sight of her father kneeling in prayer. Her heart ached at the memory of the kind, grave man. She wished they had known each other better.

If father could see her now, would he be proud of her, grateful that she would do her duty? Or would he have expected it? After all, she was the dutiful daughter. And it was only natural the burden should fall on her, now that Robb had left. Had betrayed the family. Betrayed her.

She tried to summon some sympathy for Robb. Was she not being selfish? Robb was only doing what she wished she herself could do, fleeing from an unwanted marriage.

But there was a difference, a great difference, between being asked to marry the sweet Lady Roslin Frey, and marrying Ramsay Bolton.

Sansa's objection, unlike Robb's, did not lay in the fact she did not love her intended. No. the Maiden had not sent her love but the Crone gave her wisdom, and she was no longer the silly little girl who had worshipped Lord Baratheon in her first season. And she knew there was worst things in the world than not marrying for love. So no, it was not that she did not love Ramsay Bolton.

It was that she feared him.

Her family knew he was a cad, but they did not notice the way he would watch her over crowded dance rooms, a look in his eyes akin to a starved dog eyeing a bloody steak, nor did they feel the way his hands lingered on her person whenever they met in dance. And now, because of Robb, she was to wed this man.

A harsh gale of wind shook through the trees and a single leaf flew before Sansa's face. She reached out and caught the fluttering leaf between her frozen fingers and watched it dance. The blood red stood starkly against her white skin, deep veins running across its surface.

“Damn him,” she muttered, a voice lacking in neither venom nor loathing for all it softness, “Damn him to the Seven Hells,” she relinquished the red leaf, and watched it fly away into the wind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First,a massive thank to everyone who has commented. Second sorry for not posting yesterday, but to make up for it I can confirm that Jaime and Brienne will be meeting in the next chapter, which I will post tomorrow.


	6. chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Character death

Perhaps she had agreed to Septon Meribald's request with far too much enthusiasm, yet at the end of the day she could admit no guilt. After all, it was Lord Tywin Lannister himself who pushed the Enclosure's Act through, and his sons who stood to benefit from it. Upon hearing that the Lannister brothers would be travelling through the Riverlands to meet with Lord Walder Frey, the opportunity was too great to ignore. As was, Brienne had to admit, the temptation to exert this odd, personal brand of justice once more.

The gallop from their last robbery had left Pod's mount lame, and so it was alone that Brienne set off in search of the Lannister carriage.

The pistol sat awkwardly in her hand. In truth, she cared little for the thing. It seemed like a coward's weapon, one that could kill whilst sparing the attacker from looking his victim in the eye. She longed for her precious Valyrian steel sword, and not for the first time wished she had found a chance to reclaim it. Still, the pistol would have to do.

The carriage approached and so, waiting until the last moment, she trotted out into the road and fired her warning shot. The carriage drew to a halt with a jolt, and she wrenched the door open and rammed her pistol against the head of the nearest occupant. With a slight flutter, she found herself gazing at the most handsome man she had ever seen.

She had seen Jaime Lannister before, across crowded ballrooms or bustling streets, but never up close.

From a distance, Jaime Lannister was handsome. Face to face, he was dazzling.

She felt her fingers loosen slightly on her pistol and gripped it tight, dragging herself back to Earth.

“Stand and deliver,” she growled, “Your money or your life,”

“If you were to remove your pistol,” the younger brother, Tyrion Lannister, drawled lazily, “We would be more than happy to hand over our valuables,”

“Hand over your valuables and and I'll remove my pistol,” she countered.

Lord Tyrion tutted. “Well, if you're going to be difficult,” he sighed, making a show of patting down his waistcoat in search of his purse and watch.

Brienne stifled a groan of annoyance, waiting impatiently for Lord Tyrion to hand over the goods. So distracted was she by the one brother, that she completely failed to notice the other whip out his pistol, knock her own out of her hand, and fire right above her head.

Her horse reared beneath her, ears flat against its back. Brienne usually had little difficulty keeping her seat, but Lord Jaime's hands had grabbed a hold of her, so that when her horse bolted away from the carriage, she was pulled back in the opposite direction.

Now with nothing but thin air between herself and the hard ground, Brienne fell with a heavy thud. The two brothers and their driver snapped into action and bundled her into their carriage, whilst all she could do was watch with faint horror as her horse galloped into the darkness, leaving her in the hands of the Lannisters.

 

 

**#**

The lad was large as an aurochs and just as strong. The brothers wrestled him underneath Jaime’s cloak and bundled him into the carriage. All through the rough and bouncy journey to their inn, Jaime held his feet down on the miscreant, who still struggled from within the confines of the cloak.

Tyrion, having commandeered the boy’s pistol, inspected it with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s empty,” he informed his brother.

Jaime grabbed the boy and dragged him from the carriage. “Mine isn’t,” he growled, pressing his pistol into the boy’s back. Jaime hauled the boy away from the carriage and pushed him forward. The boy seemed to see sense and made no attempts of escape, and instead merely hobbled his way into the inn. Upon entrance, they came face to face with a startled inn keep, who stared incredulously at the party.

“A private room please,” Tyrion said pleasantly, “And some supper,”

Jaime shoved the boy in the back and pushed him forwards, propelling him towards the stairs. Tyrion followed after him, calling over his shoulder, “And we shall need wine. Lots of it!”

They marched the lad up the stairs and thrust him into the room. They shoved him down onto a chair and; after securing the boy’s hands , yanked the cloak down from his head.

Jaime blinked. “You’re a woman!”

Tyrion leaned forward, thrusting a candle into their captive’s face. “Are you sure?”

“We could take her breeches off and check I suppose,”

“Don’t you dare!” the woman hissed, spitting into Jaime’s face.

Jaime dabbed at the spit with a lacy handkerchief. “Manners,” he chided her.

“Now,” Tyrion continued, “What is a lovely young lady like you doing loitering by the Highways at night? So dangerous an occupation for a young woman,”

“I think it is _she_ who is providing the danger, dear brother,” Jaime pointed out.

The woman glowered, her jaw stubbornly set.

Jaime sighed. “Shall we start again,” he extended his hand, “I am Lord Jaime Lannister,”

“I know who you are,” she growled.

“Your reputation proceeds you dear brother,” Tyrion smirked.

“May we enquire as to your name?” Jaime asked, “Or should I just call you Wench?”

“I do not think Wench will suit brother,” Tyrion put in, “This one’s a lady. You can tell from her voice, if not the looks,”

Jaime tilted his head to the side, “Why brother, I do believe you are right. Come now, my Lady. What is your name?”

The woman stared stubbornly at the ground. Jaime stuck out two elegant fingers to tilt up her head, staring at her in the eyes. “I must inform you that you are a terrible conversationalist. You have been quite dour all evening,”

“Tell us your name and we may let you go,” Tyrion added.

The lady’s shoulders drooped. “Brienne,” she muttered, “My name is Brienne,”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “As in Lady Brienne Tarth? Who not two moons ago fled from her guardian’s house the night before her wedding?”

“Why brother, if we return her we will end up in the papers! And not for getting caught up in duel and married women’s bed sheets,”

“Please don’t!” Lady Brienne cried, her sullen face turning white with panic, “I beg you. Tarly was convinced that my father would have wanted me to marry Ser Wagstaff, but he would not have wanted me to be unhappy. And I would have been miserable with him,” her rather astonishing blue eyes shone with defiance, “It was either run away from Tarly's house or throw myself off from the top of it,”

Jaime’s face softened. “I do not think you would have done that, you don’t seem the type,”

“So,” Tyrion concluded, “You ran away from your cruel guardian’s house in the middle of night, escaping from a forced marriage, and turned to a life of crime to feed yourself. Lurking by roads at night and stealing from unsuspecting passers-by, before galloping off into the darkness. If you were pretty, it would be like a fairy tale,”

“No,” Brienne interrupted in quiet voice, “It was not to feed myself,”

“Ah,” Jaime said, catching on, “Somewhere along the moonlit road, you picked up a stray. A poor little orphan with big eyes and scabbed knees. Or even better, a whole gang of them,”

Brienne remained silent.

“Well,” Jaime pressed her, “Did you?”

Brienne swallowed, and stared up at him with pleading eyes. “They are orphans, they have no home and nowhere to turn to. I had to help them,”

“How noble,” Jaime sighed, “I feel quite touched, don't you brother?”

“Touched or sickened,” Tyrion replied, “one of the two,”

“So now,” Jaime said, turning back to Brienne, “We have a slight dilemma as to what to do with you,”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that. She may prove rather useful,”

Jaime stared at Tyrion incredulously “You don’t mean…?”

Tyrion nodded, regarding the captive Lady Brienne solemnly. “Well, we shall be spared a dinner with Walder Frey,”

“That's true,”

Brienne frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Tyrion turned to face Brienne. “You are not the only one who has been put upon to marry. My late beloved father has put it into his Will that unless Jaime marries a young lady of noble birth, his inheritance shall go to our nephew. And if you met him, you would know why we don’t want that to happen. For one, he has already made use of that obscene act passed in Parliament that I'm afraid our own father helped push though, but thankfully did not live to take advantage of. But Joffrey can, and will. To put it succinctly, he’s a little shit,”

“But then,” Jaime added, “So was our father. And neither of us like the idea of him resting easily in his grave,”

Brienne laughed, “You cannot mean...” she trailed off at the sight of their faces, “You aren't saying...”

“Oh, but we are,” Jaime informed her with a smile.

“Do you mean to tell me that you would marry me just to claim your inheritance and spite your dead father?” Brienne asked, horrified.

Jaime smiled. “Come now, all fairy tales demand a charming prince,”

“And in the absence of one, my brother would make do,”

Brienne tilted her chin and clenched her jaw stubbornly. “I have little use of a charming prince, and less so for your brother,”

“You might have use for our gold, however,” Jaime pointed out, “How much money can you truly provide for those poor, precious orphans of yours robbing highways?”

“When I come into my majority, I can use my inheritance to help them,”

“And do you truly believe that you will last that long before you get hung?” Jaime asked.

“I will not be hung,” Brienne insisted.

“That is quite true,” Tyrion agreed. “What you mean, dear brother, is that she will be hanged. She will be hanged, not hung. She is a person, not a tapestry,”

“Hanged or hung, she will be dead and her orphans will starve,”

Brienne blinked in astonishment. “If I were to marry you,” she said slowly, “You would help me?”

“Why not? Lannisters have so much gold that it is frankly obscene,” Jaime informed her, “And naturally, if you do us this service, we shall repay you in kind. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts,” still seeing the hesitancy in her eyes, he added, “If it please you, I could even have my lawyer have it written in our marriage contract that your lands and wealth will remain your own, to do with as you please. How does that sound?”

It sounded mad. But as she mulled her options, all Brienne could think of were those hungry eyes, large and desperate. Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes and nodded.

**#**

The leaf came from nowhere. One moment they had been merrily racing along through the Godswood, perched atop Robb's phaeton. Jeyne's hastily pinned on bonnet had flown off in the wind and her bedraggled hair was half loose, whipping across her face and streaming behind her. As they flew through the woods, laughter burst from Jeyne's pink lips and Robb turned to smile at his apple cheeked bride. With their skin bitten by the wind and their hearts singing, still relishing in the bliss they had found in each other at the tiny inn where they became husband and wife in full, it appeared as though all grief in the world had been blown away and nought but joy and hope bloomed.

It took a single red leaf to change all that.

It descended form the white sky and plastered itself to Robb's face. Robb lifted his hand momentarily form the reins to remove it, fumbling as Jeyne's hands met with his in her attempts to help. Neither saw the low lying bough stretching across the path. Robb's favourite white mare, Grey Wind, shied, and they were thrown into the road as the Phaeton veered off the tracks and flipped over.

Having been momentarily knocked out by the knock to her head, Jeyne awoke with a start. The shadows of the broken phaeton were covering her in darkness, but she could feel Robb's heavy body pinning her down. Something hot and wet dripped down onto Jeyne's forehead and into her eyes. She tried to move, but found the weight of both Robb and the Phaeton to be too great. Robb had yet to move, still unconscious from the fall. If they were to escape, Jeyne needed him to wake up and help lift the Phaeton.

“Robb?” she asked, “Robb!”

Robb did not reply. Twisting her head, Jeyne saw that Robb's eyes were not shut, but wide open and bulging. He could not be asleep, and yet he did not move. Jeyne was plunged into coldness and she desperately strained her ears in the hop of hearing Robb's heartbeat.

She heard nothing. Nothing but the howling of the wind, and the steady drip of the blood pouring out of Robb's mouth and onto her forehead.

  ****

**End of Part 1**


	7. Part 2 Chapter 7

**Part 2**

 

For one heart stopping minute, Brienne thought she was back in Tarly House. She lay tense for a moment, before relaxing into the bed's warm embrace. To awake with both a full stomach and clean caused her a momentary confusion as she remembered how she had come to wake in such a state.

The night before, at dinner with both her prospective husband and goodbrother, she had ferociously attacked a steaming bowl of beef stew, causing some raising of the eyebrows as hot gravy slid down her chin. The savoury smell of the stew had awakened her suppressed hunger like a slumbering beast, and so it was with great vigour that she shovelled it down her throat as the brothers laid out their terms.

It was with equally great vigour that she spewed the stew back up her throat, her stomach having shrunk considerably and grown unaccustomed to such indulgence. To their credit, despite their obvious disgust, Lord Jaime and Lord Tyrion were both efficient in having the mess cleaned up. Lord Tyrion called for both a maid to wash the table and a bath to wash the (already quite filthy and pungently smelling) lady. Lord Jaime had been surprisingly conciliatory in his manner as he passed his betrothed a glass of water.

“Sorry,” Brienne muttered dully, noting the chunks of beef decorating Lord Jaime's fine waistcoat.

Jaime shrugged nonchalantly, “I have seen worse in the war,” he informed her, before remarking wryly, “Although I can't help but feel somewhat insulted that talks of our marriage should bring by such a reaction,”  
“It is only to be expected, dear brother,” Tyrion said, turning to his future goodsister, a kindly smile on his face, “Perhaps you would care to step into the room that has been arranged for you and change out of those things while you wait for your bath,” he suggested.

The hot bath that followed was heavenly, as was the clean shift provided for her to change into. Although Brienne's mind was a whirl with the events of the night, her body had turned sluggish and the snug bed soon had her in a deep sleep.

Now, wide awake, the full impact of her decision was beginning to sink in.

Last night, the fear of being sent back to Lord Tarly's house and the ominous threat of marriage to Ser Wagstaff had made any other option look desirable. To be married to that odious man and have her lands and home taken from her.

Or worse, to be sent to an Asylum.

One of those grey, desolate buildings where inconvenient young women were locked away and kept silent. You need not worry about being insane to be admitted, for insanity was certain to follow. To be shut away from the world, forced to follow the same routine over and over, and be of no use to anyone. Even as the morning sun streamed through the windows and the full impact of her decision dawned upon her, she knew without a doubt she would do anything to avoid condemning herself to such a fate.

Even becoming Lady Lannister.

It was not a prospect she welcomed, true. As Lady of Tarth she might have been allowed some privacy and not be called upon to play a part in society. But to become the Lady of Casterly Rock would be to subject herself to never-ending scrutiny. She could already hear the whispers. The sniggers. The scorn.

Her stomach lurched and for a moment she believed she would be suffering a repeat of last night. The very thought of marrying Lannister was enough to push her into making another escape attempt. She forced herself to calm, before wrapping the bed spread around her and crossing over to a vanity. Brienne stared at herself sternly.

“You will not back out now,” she said in a firm voice, “However you feel about being wed, you will follow through with your promise. You gave your word,”

And she would keep her word. To be Lady Lannister might have meant stifling social constraints, but it also meant money and opportunities. That could not be denied. This was the only way she could truly help the likes of Pod and the other orphans. Robbing highways could only do so much, and she would not always be able to to target the corrupt and immoral. Now she had the opportunity to truly be of use, she could not forsake those she swore to help. And Tarth would be hers. The land that her father loved so dearly, she could protect it and its people, whilst guaranteeing an heir to inherit it.

And so she would hold down her fears and doubts, and do her duty.

“My Lady?”

Brienne whipped round to find Lord Jaime Lannister watching her from the doorway. Self-consciously, she tugged tightly at her bedspread and slunk down in the chair.

“My Lord, it is not appropriate that you should see me in such a state,” she rebuked him.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “I am sure you will understand if I do not take guidance on what is appropriate from the woman who stuck a gun to my head,”

Brienne scowled and pulled once more at the bedspread.

“As it is,” Jaime continued, “I have come with clothing. My own, I'm afraid, there are no dresses at hand that would fit you. Of course, you have no difficulty wearing breeches. Still, I can assure you that we will have you returned to dresses and petticoats in no time,”

“I find I can live without either,” Brienne remarked dryly, “Though I thank you for the clothes,”

Jaime nodded his head graciously, laying the clothes over her bed. Brienne almost found herself laughing as she looked at him. He was so ridiculously handsome, golden and chiselled. For all of her woe over agreeing to the man's proposal, she could only imagine his at having to make it. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and grimaced on seeing her red, freckled face staring back at her.

At least her future husband may be content in knowing that their match would succeed its goal in tormenting his dead father. What family wouldn't be ashamed at having a creature like herself intrude into it? Wretched, shambling creature that she was. It seemed suitable that the only match offered to her was one made of spite, she mused bitterly.

She couldn't comprehend why such thoughts still had the capability to cause her harm. She had learned long ago that love was not made for the likes of her.

Lord Jaime straightened up and turned towards the door.

“Breakfast shall be served momentarily,” he called over his shoulder, “Then after that you may lead me to your little nest of hungry orphans,”

“Why would I do that?” she demanded.

Jaime halted in his tracks and turned to face her with a raised eyebrow. “Because I gave my word to help them,” he drawled condescendingly, “And to do so, it is necessary for me to meet them,”

“And you mean to keep your word?” Brienne asked uncertainly.

Jaime turned his back on her once more, shoulders tense. “Yes, I mean to keep my word,” he said harshly as he walked away, “Shockingly!”

#

At breakfast, Sansa was silent. Bran, Rickon, Arya and Jon were squabbling good naturedly, throwing squares of toast at each other, as was their wont (Sansa having been too ladylike to join in since the age of two). Meanwhile, Catelyn happily conversed with their visiting Uncle Brynden whilst reading her letters.

The night before Lord Bolton and his odious son had attended dinner in lieu of discussing the potential match between Ramsay and Sansa. Despite her many reservations, Sansa voiced no objections. She smiled sweetly and said all the right things, carefully minding her courtesies. When Jon took her aside and asked her if she truly wanted the match, she informed him she did, for she knew her family would never allow to marry Ramsay if they saw her true feelings. And so she kept a careful facade to ensure the match went ahead and Winterfell was saved.

None had been able to see through it.

Yet deep down she nursed the hope, selfish as it was, that Robb may refuse to sell Winterfell to the Boltons. She would not be the one to ruin the family, but if Robb took that responsibility off her shoulders... surely, if Robb himself was willing to cast duty aside, he would not expect Sansa to take up his mantle?

True, as Lord Bolton and Lady Catelyn discussed the particulars, Ramsay was all smiles and fair words. But after dinner, he had taken her aside into the remotest corner of the large Drawing Room with a light but insistent hand.

“I hope,” he had confided in her, “That there will be no impediments to this match, and we shall be wed swiftly. I must admit to having never seen so fair a lady, nor one who I would so desire as to call wife,”

Charming as those words may have been, they were accompanied a lizard like lick of the lips, and a gentle but intimate touching of her arm.

This behaviour was only witnessed by Sansa, after their departure that Catelyn had eve noted Ramsay's courteous behaviour and expressed a hope that “Marriage will be just the thing to curb his wild ways.”

The look in Ramsay's eyes as he discussed their marriage stayed with Sansa from dinner through the night and remained present at the breakfast table.

All heads turned towards her mother as she choked out a broken sob. In her trembling hands she clutched a letter that she seemed unable to tear her eyes away from, even as tears swelled within them and dropped onto the page.

“Mother?” Sansa asked tentatively, “What is it?”

Lady Catelyn made no response except for the watery gasps and the violent heaving of her shoulders. Gently, their Uncle Brynden reached out and took the letter from his niece's hands. Frowning in concentration, he read the the smudged and tear blotted letter. His face turned white, and his eyes frantically darted back up the page to re-read it. Then read it again. All in the vain hopes that he had misunderstood.

“Oh, Cat, “ he murmured softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. He drew her up and pulled her into a gruff embrace, his muscular arms swallowing her whole. She buried her head into his shoulder and clung to him like a little girl, shaking and sobbing.

“My boy,” she gasped over and over, “Oh, my poor boy,”

Sansa felt herself turn cold, as Arya and Jon exchanged horrified looks.

“Robb,” Sansa whispered, her voice growing urgent “What has happened?”

“There was an accident,” Uncle Brynden told them gruffly, “On his Phaeton. He...he and his bride fell,” he swallowed, and went on brusquely, tightening his grip on Catelyn “Robb was killed on impact,”

Jon's chair scraped harshly against the wooden floor as he jerked upwards. He shook his head, desperately grabbing for Arya's hand as silent tears began to run down her cheeks. Bran began to shake like a leaf, whilst Rickon looked round at his siblings.

“I don't understand,” he said, “When is Robb coming back?”

Catelyn's tears grew and Uncle Brynden gently detached himself. “Here lad,” he told Bran, “Come take care of your mother. Your brother's bride is alone and someone must see to her,”

Bran ran to his mother, and was quickly pulled into a choke hold of an embrace. Jon gathered Arya and Rickon into his arms and gestured for Sansa to join him. Numbly, Sansa moved to waylay Uncle Brynden at the door.

“How?” she asked quietly, “How did it happen?”

Uncle Brynden lay a hand upon Sansa's cool cheek and kissed her forehead, whispering into her ear. “A leaf child, it was a leaf from a Weirwood tree and took Robb's eye off the road,” he kissed her once more, “It was an accident, unforeseeable and no one to blame,” with that, he was gone.

“Sansa?” Jon croaked, “Come here,”

Sansa looked at her family, all clinging to one another like drowning men to a piece of wreckage. In her reflection off the window, she saw that she was shaking and quivering like a leaf. Like the leaf she had damned Robb on.

She turned her back and fled.

**#**

The inn, with its sturdy furniture and roaring fire, had seemed like luxury to Brienne. The immense grandeur of Casterly Rock, with its crimson tapestries and golden lion busts, was something else entirely.

“Well,” Jaime asked her, “What do you think of it?”

_'Sickening,'_ Brienne almost said, choking down her true option on the grotesque and obscenely extravagant structure that was to be her new home. “It is very grand, my Lord,” she managed at last.

The trio stood in the entrance hall, waiting for the Butler and footmen to see their belongings. Jaime ran a lazy eye over the decorative statues and golden staircase. There was a golden staircase! Highly polished and shining, with red velvet carpeting running down it, yet it was probably the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

“It is not to my tastes,” Jaime confided to her, “Too much gold,”

Tyrion gave a mock gasp, choking on the glass of red wine that had miraculously materialized into his hand. “Too much gold!” he cried, “My brother how could you say that? As a Lannister you should be ashamed,”

Jaime did not respond, instead his gaze was drawn to a lone figure looming at the top of the staircase.

“Cersei,” he said, in a voice that was part longing, part devotion and part dread.

As Lady Cersei Lannister's hawk like gaze swept over her, Brienne found herself feeling both too big and too small. She was all too aware of her large frame and awkward limbs, taking up far too much space and making her a greater target for the venom pouring out of the Dowager Lady Baratheon. And yet, standing there in the vast entrance hall, and being scrutinised by Lady Cersei's scornful glare, she had never felt more insignificant.

Or lonely.

She tried to take comfort that Podrick was near by, having accompanied her to work in the stables. The rest of the orphans and Septon Meribald had been handed a purse full of gold dragons, with the promise of more to come. That her new husband was the type to carry round such quantities of gold was less of a surprise now that she had seen his estate. As fine a home as Evenfall Hall was, Brienne had never known such luxury or grandeur.

Obviously, the same could not be said for Lady Cersei. She gilded down the golden staircase with such impressive hauteur that it was clear that she did not consider Casterly Rock to be too daunting or hold too much gold. The ornate and costly decoration was clearly much to her liking.

She wore a fine gown of emerald green satin, with panniers wider than Brienne had ever seen outside of court. Brilliant emeralds glittered at her neck and ears, matching the intense green of her eyes that she shared with her brother.

“Jaime,” she tilted her head regally, her fixed on Brienne's shrinking form, “From your letter I was expecting a young lady, instead you seem to have some overgrown farmhand cluttering up the entrance hall,”

“A delight to see you as well, sweet sister,” Tyrion said pleasantly, “No doubt you will be pleased to welcome Lady Brienne Tarth, your new goodsister,”

“Really?” Cersei smirked, her eyes full of delighted malice as they fan over Brienne's ungainly figure.

“And, of course, the future Lady of the Rock,”

A cold silence fell upon the company, including the eavesdropping Butler. Jaime, for once in his life being the tactful member of the group, sought to change the subject.

“Would you have the housekeeper summoned so that Lady Brienne may be shown her chambers,” he requested, “I am sure she would be glad for a chance to rest before changing for dinner,”

“Of course brother,” Cersei replied smoothly, “Naturally I would be willing to lend Lady Brienne some of my clothes myself. It is unfortunate that nothing I own could fit her,”

Brienne blushed furiously, but managed to hold her tongue. “Nevertheless, I thank you for the thought. And you need not concern yourself, your brother has kindly offered to lend me some of his things until my own can be delivered from the Tarly's,”

“What, do you mean to wear breeches?”

“I would presume so,” Tyrion put in, “Unless there's something Jaime isn't telling us,”

“I prefer to wear breeches,” Brienne explained.

Cersei's lips twitched upwards. “That I can well believe,”

She turned her back from the company and began to glide her way back up the staircase, her silken skirts slowly trailing behind her. “I will have someone show you to your room,” she called over her shoulder.

“Well,” Tyrion mused as he watched his sister's retreating back, “That went better than expected, indeed she was really quite friendly,”

“That was friendly?” Brienne asked in faint horror.

Tyrion patted her on the arm, “You should see her on a bad day,”

 


	8. chapter 8

The room she was shown to followed the example of the rest of the house, far too large even for Brienne, and covered in crimson tapestries. The bed was carved with snarling lions, and the sheets and curtains were, naturally, blood red. It seemed she would be drowning in the colour.

But the view from the window, large and with a seat big enough for Brienne to perch on, laid before her the cliffs and magnificent Sunset Sea. She sat mesmerized, watching the methodic rise and fall of the waves with tears in her eyes at the sudden reminder of home.

As disconcerting as the red of the chamber surrounding her was, cloistering her in, it was the sight of the sea that grew too much for Brienne and had her fleeing from her rooms.

She resolved to take the chance to explore the castle of which she would soon be called mistress. Brienne was loathe to find herself on unsteady footing, and thought the sooner she became acquainted with her surroundings, the better.

If Casterly Rock had merely been some castle and not a home, she may have been predisposed to liking it a bit more. The menacing beauty of the place stood testament to House Lannister's reputation of one of the most powerful and fearsome houses of the Seven Kingdoms.

But to grow up here, and spend one's childhood here... well, it was not particularly cosy.

Apart from the scornful spectre of her old Governess, Brienne appreciated how blessed she had been in her childhood. Evenfall was a beautiful home, and the isle on which it sat even more so. She had known her home and its surrounding lands like the back of her hand.

One of her most cherished memories was of her and her father, engaging in mock battles down the hallway of Evenfall, laughing and playfully jeering at one another as they swung her wooden swords.

Her father had not exactly approved of her hoydenish ways, but he had permitted them for no other reason than to make her happy.

Jaime and Tyrion had told her that one of the reasons Jaime wished to marry her was to spite his father's memory. Despite herself, she felt a pang of pity for the siblings who had grown under the care of a father they resented so much that they were willing for one of them to be married to the likes of her, simply to spit on his grave.

So deep was she in thought, it took a while until she realised that she had no idea of where she was, having blindly wandered down the lengthy halls and into the belly of the Rock. Brienne grimaced and tried to retrace her steps, only to take a wrong turn and become hopelessly lost.

As she trailed down the hallway in vain, she sighed in relief on hearing voices. She followed them, finding them coming from behind a locked door at the end of a narrow corridor.

“Honestly brother,” a voice laced with a familiar scorn broke out, “Couldn't you find anyone better?”

“She's as ugly and awkward as they come,” the voice of her future husband confirmed, “But I know how to keep her in line. We need not fear her, and for all of Tyrion's jibes I have no doubt that she cares little for being Lady of Casterly,”

“I should hope so! A creature such as she, Lady of the Rock. It is absurd. Casterly Rock deserves someone with grace and poise,”

“Someone like you, you mean?” the bemusement in Jaime's tone mingling with fondness.

“Can you deny it?”

“Certainly not. You should be the Lady of Casterly Rock! And if I had my way, you would be,”

Here the sound of voice gave way to quite another sound. As inexperienced as she was in such matters, Brienne could recognise the sound of lips against lips.

Her stomach twisted as she stifled a gag against her hand, discretely trying to flee from the corridor. Vomit rose up her throat, which she desperately swallowed down.

Pod, she told herself. She was doing this for Pod. Pod, and Septon Meribald, and Jeyne and Willow and all the others. And Tarth, she was doing it for Tarth also. They were worth it. They had to be.

Still, as the memory of the sound of the twins' pleasured groans rang in her ears, all Brienne could do was wonder as to what type of hell she had let herself in for.

**#**

She had rarely ever seen Lady Catelyn from anything other than a distance, and had only exchanged a few polite words with her. She had always slightly intimidated Jeyne, so beautiful and aloof. The daughter, Sansa, had come out the same year as Jeyne, but that was when the Starks were still one of the wealthiest families in Westeros. As it were back then, the darling daughter of the Starks had little time for the poor Westerling girl, preferring to keep company with the Tyrells and Baratheons.

The only Stark who ever deigned to speak with her was Robb.

Now the Starks were poor and impoverished also, and yet still they treated her with a cool courtesy. Lady Catelyn's lips brushed against her cheek as she formally welcomed her new good daughter to Winterfell. Lady Sansa and her brothers followed suit, as well as their cousin Jon. The youngest girl, Arya, stubbornly refused to do so. From beneath a tangle of wild brown hair, a sullen face glowered up at her. When Jon tried to lead her forward by the hand, she yanked it back and crossed her arms, pointedly turning her back and marching inside.

Catelyn sighed. “You must forgive Arya,” she told Jeyne, “She is very young and it has been a hard time for her,”

Jeyne nodded. “I can imagine,” she said in a soft voice.

Catelyn gestured her older daughter forward. “Sansa will show you to your room, I am sure that you are quite tired from your long journey,”

Jeyne meekly followed Lady Sansa into the entrance of Winterfell, and paused momentarily, stunned at the size of it. Old and crumbling it may be, but still one of the most magnificent castles she had ever seen. Jeyne felt as though she had stepped back in time, back to the Long Night. Candles lit the dark halls and tapestries depicting the Stark Direwolf graced the stone walls. It was nothing like the fashionable houses of the West and King's Landing she had visited, even the Crag had made more of an attempt to stay modern, yet she did not think she had ever seen a finer home.

This should have been their home. Her and Robb's.

And yet, could this place ever have been her home? It was so old, the weight of a thousand Starks seemed to press against her shoulders. Would this place truly accept the girl for whom the Lord of Winterfell had cast aside both family and duty for? She doubted it. The Starks were proud, and ever mindful of their honour. Jon Snow, the orphaned son of the dead and disgraced Lyanna Stark may have been taken in and cared for, but her name was rarely spoken within these halls. Robb had told her as much.

Lady Sansa, with her pinched white face and long auburn tresses flowing down the back of her simple black gown, looked like the princess of a song. She expertly led Jeyne through the long corridors and twisting staircases with ease, completely silent.

“Winterfell...” Jeyne began awkwardly, “It is very fine,”

For a moment she did not think Lady Sansa heard her, or else was not intending to answer.

“I hated it when I was young,” Sansa said suddenly, causing Jeyne to stop in her tracks.

“W-what?”

“I hated it. I thought it was old and dark and far away from anyone worth talking to. I couldn't wait to get away,” even as she spoke, Lady Sansa refused to look at her, but continued walking.

“Oh,” Jeyne wasn't sure what to say.

“But now, I will do anything to stay,” Sansa finally drew to a stop outside a door, turning to face Jeyne, “Robb is gone. Bran may be the new Lord, but I am the eldest and it is my duty to protect Winterfell,”

Jeyne shifted under her gaze, staring at her feet. Sansa's gaze lingered on her momentarily, before turning to open the door, “This will be your room,”

Jeyne stepped in, to see a fine room with a large fireplace and fur covers on the large poster bed. She stepped in, only to falter when she saw the view from the window.

“The Godswood,” she whispered, turning to Sansa in a panic, “No, I cannot stay here! Please, there must be another room,” she begged.

“No, there isn't,” Sansa snapped, before softening, “There are no other rooms fit for use. When Robb called off Lady Roslin, Lord Frey went back on his offer to pay off our debts,” Sansa cast a glance around the chamber, “Half the castle is decaying because there is no money for repairs,”

And with that, Sansa turned her back and left Jeyne standing there.

**#**

“It's beautiful, isn't it?”

Brienne started to see Jaime watching her, a peculiar look on his face. She had been perched in her windowsill, watching the last few rays of sun set over the green sea. She nodded stiffly, and turned once more to the window, watching Jaime through he reflection on the glass. Silence reined between the two momentarily, before Jaime laid a pile of clothing onto her bed.

“I hope you like your room,” he said at last.

“It's perfectly sufficient,” she said, resolutely avoiding meeting his gaze.

Jaime raised his eyebrow. “So cold my Lady?” he asked, “We are to be wed soon after all. By the end of the month, in fact,”

Brienne turned to face him shock. “By the end of the month?” she spluttered. She had known it was coming, but so soon? “How?”

Jaime shrugged. “I had yet to cancel the arrangements for the Westerling girl in the hopes of finding another bride to take her place, and so I have. Ironically, as I finalise the preparations for what would have been our wedding, she shall begin preparations for her husband's funeral,”

“I know she broke her word to you,” she rebuked him sternly, “But you should not be so cruel,”

“No cruelty,” Jaime protested, “Merely fact,”

Brienne scowled and turned her back pointedly. Jaime huffed in exasperation.

“Fine, be like that,” he said, “I only came to tell you that dinner shall be served in half an hour, so you will wish to get dressed. I shall be waiting without, as you will clearly need a guide to find the Dining Hall,” he smirked, “After all, you were very lost earlier,”

Brienne blinked, turning to face him horror. He knew that she knew.

He waltzed towards her, hands in waistcoat pocket, and backing her against the cold glass of the window.

“I love Cersei,” he informed her, staring at her straight on in the eye as he clenched her chin in his hand and forced her head upwards, “We have waited our entire lives for a chance to be together and nothing will stand in our way now. This marriage, we will both get what we want out of it, but I will never leave Cersei. Do you understand me?”

Brienne coldly removed Jaime's hand from her chin, “Perfectly so,” she replied, “I am under no delusions as to what our marriage shall entail. You married me for your reasons and I for my own. You help me with my friends, and allow me as much freedom as I please, and I shall offer no word of complaint,”

“Well then,” he smirked in satisfaction, “It seems we understand one another perfectly,”

 


	9. chapter 9

Poor little Rickon sobbed all throughout the funeral. That Robb would not be returning had finally set in, but he was yet to understand why. All he knew was that within the space of one year, both his father and brother were gone. Sansa, seeing the bewildered tears streaking down his face, stooped to lift him into her arms and rest him on her hip. He clung to the edge of her bodice and buried his face on her shoulder.

Next to Sansa, Jon stood with a firm hand clasped on Arya's bony shoulders. Lady Catelyn stood on the other side, clutching Bran's hand in hers. Ever since the letter arrived she had been unable to relinquish her darling, never letting him far from sight. Young Theon Greyjoy, having rushed to Winterfell the second her heard the news, stood beside Jon, his face stricken. Whereas Jon's face was set and cold, Theon was near weeping. Sansa was touched by his obvious grief for Robb, such a rare display for a boy who was usually in complete want of feeling.

Jeyne stood alone. Since her arrival, she had kept a wary distance from them like a rabbit avoiding a pack of sleeping wolves. Eating her meals silently and excusing herself at the earliest moment to go to bed. Did she feel the scorn and disapproval of the family pouring onto her? Or had her grief simply worn her to the bone?

Sansa knew she should hold more sympathy for her brother's widowed bride, but the events of the past year seemed to have stripped her of all softness and tenderness. The loss of their money. Father's passing and Robb's death.

Her engagement to Ramsay.

She felt Rickon's slight body trembling, and held him closer. She pressed a kiss to his auburn curls and cast her eye over her family. For all her fear, she would never back out. She was a Stark and she would do her duty. Mother need never leave Winterfell, Bran and Rickon could go to school, Jon can buy his commission into the army and Arya... well Arya could look after herself. But the help would be there if she needed it.

Ramsay cornered her after the service. He smile was amiable but his blue eyes as cold as the wind that rattled through the leaves of the Godswood.

“Lady Sansa,” he said pleasantly, “My condolences on your loss,”

She nodded her head stiffly, “I thank you,” she said, making to move away.

He lightly placed his hand on the wall beside her, closing in around her. “Do you know, when you were holding your little brother, I thought that I could see you with our future children,”

Sansa shuddered. Marrying the man was one thing, but to have his children. It may be her duty, but duty could only push her so far. Ramsay saw he distaste flash across her face and raised an eyebrow, his jaw clenching ever so slightly.

“The prospect does not suit you?” he asked softly.

Sansa forced herself to smile. “I am not sure it is proper to talk of such things,” she said stiffly, “After all, nothing is settled yet. No announcement is made and only our families know. To discuss children seems slightly pre-emptive,”

“Well it will be soon,” Ramsay said with a nod, “My father's offer will only last so long,”

He turned his back and left her in the corner. Sansa saw her hands were shaking and buried them in her skirts. A gentle hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, turning frantically to see who had crept up on her.

It was Theon. His hand was resting gently on her shoulder but his eyes, wide and concerned, were following Ramsay prowl around the room.

“Theon?” she asked.

His eyes met hers. “Tell me quickly,” he said in a harsh whisper, “Are you promised to Ramsay Bolton?”

“Nothing has been finalised yet, but there is an... an understanding,” she explained bitterly.

“Do you want to marry him,”

Sansa glanced uneasily over her shoulder.

“No,” she confided in him, “No I do not. But, Theon, there is no other way,”

Theon dropped his voice and placed both hands firmly on her shoulders. “There might be,” he told her, “There might be. Listen, I know that the world says I am a cad but Ramsay Bolton, it would be flattery to call him a cad,”

Sansa nodded. “What do you suppose I do?”

“Nothing yet. I have to return to Pyke, but I will be back soon,” he squeezed her shoulders sternly, “Until then, agree to nothing. Nothing! Sansa, please, promise me that you will. Promise me,”

Sansa's clear blue eyes widened in confusion, but still she nodded. “I promise,” she assured him, “I promise,”

#

Guests kept coming up to Jeyne, offering their condolences. Her family did not come, of course, and so she was left alone as stranger after stranger swarmed up to her with their insincere grief. Without thought she made the appropriate replies, echoing the pleasantries that had been drummed into her since birth.

But for all that she smiled and thanked them, all Jeyne truly wanted was to go to bed. Ever since arriving at Winterfell, Jeyne had found herself drained of life. She was one half-dead, almost as though her body was yearning to join her beloved. She walked listlessly, head bowed and shoulders slumped, dragging one foot after the other. She yawned constantly and found her eyes growing heavy.

Such a state was unavoidable when all of Jeyne's nights were plagued by nightmares. The sound of hooves, the crash of the phaeton. The blood. Robb's blood dripping down on her and filling her nose and mouth and lungs. Choking her.

Sometimes she would awake with the metallic bite of blood hanging on her tongue.

Jeyne caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall, a forlorn figure in her black widow's weeds. They were borrowed from Lady Catelyn, for when she arrived at Winterfell all she owned were the clothes on her back. The black velvet suit may have been suitable, but she could not bring herself to wear it to her husband's funeral when over a week ago she wore it to their wedding. As a result, the clothes were a size too large, making her appear shrunken and frail. A much diminished creature. That grief had robbed Jeyne of her appetite had only enhanced this effect. Her eyes were red and her skin was pale, stretched tightly over her hollow, pointed cheeks. She looked near a corpse.

She near wished she was.

#

Randyll Tarly made no reply to Jaime's request for permission to be wed to his ward, although Lady Tarly had been good enough to discretely send on some of Brienne's clothes. Fortunately, a word or two in the right ear and few well placed bribes ensured the formalities went off without a hitch. The Lannister name could withstand any scandal, as evidenced by the high born ascending on Casterly Rock for the wedding. Even the odious Rhaegar Targaryen was in attendance, at Cersei's invitation. Jaime was loathe to admit the man into his house, but Cersei had put her foot down.

Brienne suffered greatly. Now that the guests had arrived, there was no escape from their company. Nor from her groom's. Ever since she overheard his encounter with Cersei, she had taken to avoiding Jaime at every opportunity. Brienne was cold before, now she was blatantly disgusted by him.

All through the ceremony she had held herself stiff, and near shuddered when he pressed his lips. Jaime tried not to resent his bride's blatant dislike. On looking at him, her pretty blue eyes would fill with distaste and her lips would purse. For all that it seemed to be a lark when he first proposed the match, Jaime had to confront the fact that he wed a stranger. And a stranger who despised him at that. He consoled himself throughout the wedding breakfast by taunting his bride, and delighting in her struggle to maintain a blank facade. She stabbed at the food on her plate, chewing it with clenched teeth like a sow at the cud.

He leant forward and tucked back a pale lock of hair, whispering into her ear “Aye, best eat up my Lady,” he informed her, “I dare-say you shall need all your strength for tonight. I know you sit a horse well, but how can you take being ridden hard and fast?”

It was almost worth wedding the Wench just to see her blush.

The red stain on cheeks did little to improve her looks, as did the way she sat hunched in her seat. The hastily cobbled together wedding gown might have looked comely on her, but her obvious discomfort quickly put to bed that notion. Her blue satin wedding gown had to be made in great haste to ensure it was ready in time, and style had clearly been placed over comfort. As such, she could hardly move in the thing. Brienne's maid had painstakingly piled her limp yellow locks into fashionable curls atop her head, and pinned it in place with ruby hair pins that dug into her scalp.

“I do think that I prefer you in breeches,” Jaime confided to her, “Although, that may have been the mask covering your face. It was certainly a vast improvement,”

Brienne stared straight ahead, allowing his comment to go unacknowledged.

“Ah,” Jaime said, “Watching the dancers I see,” he made to stand, “Would my wife do me the greatest pleasure and join me for the next dance?”

“It would do you no pleasure, Sir,” she said coldly, “I am woefully incompetent at dancing,”

“Nonsense! I am sure that there is none more graceful, nor,” he ran his eyes over Brienne's large frame, “Light of foot,”

Brienne jerked round to face him. “You are quite wrong, Sir,” she replied in a strangled whisper, “I think you will find that I am neither of those things. If you wish to dance, I am sure that there are many ladies present you shall find more to your taste,” she nodded her head, “Your sister, for example,”

Jaime's face turned to stone as he followed Brienne's line of sight, only to see his sister fawning over Rhaegar Targaryen.

He swigged down the the last of his wine. “Damn Wench!” he swore, before scraping back his chair and striding from the hall.

**#**

Brienne remained in her seat in silent mortification. Not yet a day married and her husband was already storming off in disgust. As guests peered round curiously at the abandoned bride, Brienne strove to maintain a a dignified manner. Behind feathered fans and hands daintily gloved in silk, they tittered and smirked, poison pouring out of their pretty pink mouths. She knew what they were thinking. What they were saying. No doubt her husband was now receiving the same pity that her father used to.

She straightened her back and tilted her chin. Let them pity him! Lord Jaime was a rude, arrogant toe-rag of a man and she felt no shame in inviting scorn to his family. These powdered, painted peacocks in their finery and grand houses, who carelessly walked over the broken backs of thousands without a second thought, saw fit to judge her! They swanned about in their silks and their jewels and made her feel guilt for every intake of breath she dared to take. Brienne had lived with their scorn her entire life and the more she learned about the world, the less she cared for their opinion of her. Least of all Jaime Lannister's!

Giving up all forms of pretence, she threw down her napkin and fled, rushing from the Great Hall and into the courtyard. There she found a blessed reprieve from the heat and crush of the crowd, taking in as deep as breaths as her tightly laced gown would allow. A light breeze blew, cooling her hot cheeks, and as the turmoil raging within her began to calm, Brienne allowed herself to take pleasure in the clear night sky and danglingly bright moon and stars.

The moon and sun adorned her house sigil. Lord Selwyn had loved the sky, taking deep pleasure in Evenfall's fine observatory. Brienne remembered how whenever she was sad or angry, her father would take her there to peer up at the stars, so that she may take comfort in them. In his deep, melodic voice, he would talk her through ever constellation whilst running his broad fingers through her blonde hair.

The night's breeze gently ruffled Brienne's straggly locks.

She did not even realise that silent tears had been running down her cheeks until a gentle hand placed itself upon her shoulder and offered a handkerchief.

“You're crying,” a gruff voice informed her, most helpfully.

Brienne turned to find her husband holding out his handkerchief, looking almost sheepish at the tears on her face. Brienne took it wordlessly, and swiftly wiped away the tears. She could not stand for the man to see her cry.

“No, keep it,” Jaime said on her attempts to return it, “Consider it a peace offering,”

Brienne raised an eyebrow. After the beginning they had, a wet handkerchief seemed a rather poor peace offering. Nevertheless, she accepted the gesture and tucked it up the sleeve of the gown. Jaime took her arms and gently steered her towards a stone lover's seat, tucked away under the low hanging boughs of an pretty blossom tree.

“I apologise if my behaviour has cause you much distress,” he began, only to be swifty cut off.

“You do not matter enough to me to cause me any distress,” Brienne informed him harshly.

Jaime's lips twitched in approval, but continued on gravely. “Nevertheless, I crave your forgiveness for anything I have said or done that may have caused offence,”

“I suppose you intend to inform me that was never your intention,”

“No it was,” Jaime corrected her with a swift smile, “I'm a Lannister. To offend and distress is in our blood,”

“Then why do you offer your apologies?” she asked coldly.

“Because like it as not, we are husband and wife now. As such, it would benefit us both if we can find some way of trusting one another,” Jaime pointed out.

“And why should I trust you?” she snapped.

“I don't know why, but I know that I trust you,”

Brienne blinked. “You do? Why?”

“Because I have no choice. You know things about me that if they were to come to light, would ruin me entirely. And my family. Theredore, I have no option other than to place my trust in you,” he raised an eyebrow, “Of course, I could say much the same for you. We both know things about each other that could bring about the other's downfall in a matter of moments. In that regard, we are equal,”

“An interesting way to being a relationship,” Brienne remarked in a dry voice.

“Well,” Jaime said with a smirk, “I have always flattered myself in believing that I was an interesting man. And it cannot be denied that you yourself, my Lady, has made something of a habit out of bucking social conventions,” he wrapped a spontaneous arm round her shoulder, “Regardless of what else we might say about each other, neither one of us would consider the other boring. Thus far, I'd say we got off to a better start than most couples. At least we are already aware of the worst of each other from the start,”

And somehow, in the face of that twisted logic, Brienne found herself agreeing.

 

 

 


	10. chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: filthy language (Bronn)

 

Cersei had taken every care with her toilette that morning. She had been up late last night, dancing and drinking with the wedding guests, and so she felt quite worn. But she was determined to appear fresh face and beautiful as she bid the guests goodbye.

One guest in particular.

She had been standing beside her awkward good sister, relishing the pleasing comparison between the two, when she saw Rhaegar Targaryen standing alone. He had that same look of melancholy on his face that he always slipped into when he thought no one was looking. Cersei knew the Lord of Dragonstone's moods. Ever since her first Season she had been fascinated by the brooding silver haired, purple eyed gentleman. As had every green girl, bored wife and liberated widow. Although Cersei had managed to maintain some dignity and avoid fawning all over him.

All throughout that Season Cersei had sought to beguile him, subtly wielding all her charms and subjecting him to all her wiles in order to claim his affections. But in the end it was dull, tedious Elia Martell who had won him and Cersei was parcelled off to Robert Baratheon. Elia Martell caught Rhaegar in her snare but was unable to keep him, unsurprisingly. Four years of marriage and two children later, Rhaegar ran off with Lyanna Stark and had a bastard child with her, although he fervently denied all such rumours.

Cersei could not blame Rhaegar for his infidelity, having known his mouse of a wife, although she failed to see the true appeal of the horse faced Lyanna Stark. Cersei knew that if Rhaegar had chosen her, she would never have allowed him to escape her.

In the end, both of Rhaegar's lady loves died, Lyanna in childbirth and Elia in a fire, along with their children. And so Rhaegar was left, a widower and free.

Cersei floated towards him, hand outstretched and an amiable smile on her face.

“Lord Rhaegar!” she chimed, “You were not thinking of leaving without a goodbye, were you,”

Lord Rhaegar smiled pleasantly and took Cersei's lily white hand in his, pressing his lips against it.

“I would dare not, Lady Cersei,” he assured her, “It has been the greatest pleasure seeing you again,”

He was so gentlemanly and softly spoke. So different to the crude and vulgar Robert Baratheon. Nor was he like Jaime in that every comment was a caustic jape, a tiresome trait he shared with that impish brother of theirs.

“Your brother,” Rhaegar continued, “We have spoken little since I arrived,”

Cersei followed Rhaegar's line of sight to see Jaime staring at him with barely concealed distaste. Of course, Jaime and Rhaegar had a silly falling out some time around Elia's death.

“I had hoped,” Rhaegar confided in her, placing a gentle hand on Cersei's elbow that made her heart sing, “That I would have had the chance to wish Jaime well in his marriage,”

“I will pass on your good wishes,” Cersei assured him, only to be ignored, much to her chagrin.

“And to tell him to be a better husband than I ever was,” Rhaegar added, pain in his beautiful purple eyes.

Cersei mentally compared her ugly goodsister to the admittedly comely, if boring, Elia Martell. She doubted it.

“I was a poor husband, far less than what Elia deserved. Jaime knew that. But then, I could not help my heart,” he concluded.

Looking at Rhaegar once more, Cersei saw the grief lining his handsome face. She would soothe that grief, if she had the chance. She would bring him joy and make him love her so that every thought of Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell would be banished from his mind.

With a final gallant kiss to the hand, Rhaegar mounted his white stallion and rode onwards to Dragonstone. His grand, wealthy and secluded estate. His grand, wealthy, secluded and without a mistress estate, Dragonstone.

**#**

The second evening after the funeral, the Starks were sat round the dining table. Jeyne sat silently amongst them, picking lightly at her food. She swallowed down a few bites of stew before laying down her her knife and fork.

Relations with her good-family extended to nothing more to a cool civility. Jon Snow and the new Lord Brandon of Winterfell had made attempts at striking conversation, trying to welcome her into the family for Robb's sake, but these attempts proved to be fruitless. Lady Arya was outright hostile, openly glaring at her whenever they were in the other's presence.

Jeyne knew they disapproved of her, and how could they not? When because of her their brother was dead and their home soon to be lost to them. She did not know where they would go if Winterfell was sold. Or where she would go.

Her future was in chaos, with no set plan or prospects in mind. Such a far cry from the days when her mother had every inch of her life mapped out for her. Jeyne tried to think of what her life may come to look like, but she could see nothing. She had abandoned her family and left them to poverty, all for Robb.

And now Robb was gone.

“May I be excused?” she asked in a dull voice, strained from the lack of use.

“Of course my Dear,” Lady Catelyn replied, taking in her good daughter's wan face, “It would do you well to rest,”

From the corner of her eye, Jeyne could see Arya scoff. All Jeyne had been doing since her arrival was rest. Head bowed, she stood as quietly as possible. The Starks all wished her a good night, even Arya, although she had to force it out through clenched teeth. She could feel all eyes follow her as she left the room, and wished that she could blend into the tapestries.

As Jeyne walked down the stone hall way, a draft blew and she realised she had left her shawl behind. She had no true need of it, but she knew that on seeing the forgotten shawl she would have one of the children or staff return it to her. Reluctantly, she made her way back to the Dining Room.

She drew to a halt as she came face to face with Jon Snow, who stood there with her shawl in hand. She ducked her head and awkwardly reached out take it, arm twitching.

“I was just coming back for it,” she stammered, having forgotten how to thank him properly.

“No matter,” Jon said, allowing her to take they stared at one another, unsure what to say. Yet, just as Jon made to move, Jeyne reached out to stop him.

“I'm sorry,” she blurted out, the words escaping from her mouth before she had a chance to reign them in, “I am so sorry. For running off with Robb, for what I did to your family,”

“It's in the past,” Jon said uncomfortably.

“But because of me you will lose your home,”

Jon looked discretely over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “We're not losing Winterfell,” he informed her, “Well, not exactly. Lord Bolton has agreed to buy it, and have Sansa marry his son. It's not official yet, but should it come about Winterfell shall stay in the family,"

“Is-” Jeyne began uneasily, “Is Lady Sansa happy?”

Jon's face turned hard and cold. “No,” he admitted, “She has tried to hide it, but I can tell she is not. Indeed, I think her grief runs deeper than for simply being asked to marry a man she does not love. I have tried to talk to her about it, but she will not confide in me,” he sighed, “She is determined to do her duty and will do everything to protect Winterfell,”

 _'A true Stark,_ ' Jeyne thought. The Lady Sansa may favour the decadent fashions and courtly manners of the South, but at heart she was a true Stark.

“I wish I never married him,” Jeyne admitted bitterly.

“We all wish that,” a cold voice said.

Jon and Jeyne turned to see Arya watching them from the doorway of the Drawing Room, where she had been lurking silently. Whereas her attitude to Jeyne had been unwelcoming before, now Jeyne could see the pure malevolence and loathing pouring out of Arya's eyes. Jeyne dropped her gaze, gulped, and nodded.

“I don't blame you,” she said quietly, her eyes flickered upwards to meet Jon's, “If you would excuse me, I have my shawl and so I will retire now,”

And so she returned to her bedchamber in the hopes of getting a decent night's sleep. She would be needing it. After all, she was going home tomorrow.

#

Now that the guests were gone and Brienne was free from any obligations towards them, Brienne took the opportunity to visit the stables and see Pod, something she had been unable to do much since their arrival. Brienne changed into her riding habit and with Pod's help, began inspecting the numerous horses sheltered in the grand stables of Casterly Rock. Jaime had given her leave to choose any one of them to become her mount, a rather more sufficient peace offering than the wet handkerchief. She drew to halt before a stable in which a black horse lurked at the back, half hidden in shadows.

“Who's this?” she asked Podrick.

“That's Stranger, milady,” Pod replied.

“You don't want to go riding him, milady” a passing stable hand informed her, “He's a right viscous cunt,”

“How so?” Brienne asked curiously.

“He bucks and snaps something wicked. Won't let a man sit him,”

Brienne watched the great black stallion thoughtfully for a moment, before pulling out an apple as an offering. Stranger moved towards her hesitantly, sniffed the apple, before munching at it happily.

On closer inspection, she saw that his coat was matted with dirt and mane unkempt.

“Why hasn't he been groomed?” she demanded.

The stable hand shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Won't let nobody near him. I tried the other day and he nearly took a chunk out of my fucking arm,”

Brienne placed a gentle hand on his neck and began to stroke his matted coat, murmuring softly into his ear as she marvelled at the creature's magnificent beauty and perfect conformation. Stranger's ears pricked forward and when he finished the apple, he nuzzled into her hand in search of more.

Pod and the stable hand watched in awe as Stranger allowed Brienne to stroke him, brushing his velvety nose against her affectionately. Brienne slowly swung the stable door open, crooning as she entered. Stranger caught sight of her whip and shied away, snorting and fretting. On seeing this, Brienne discretely passed her whip to Podrick.

“Take this away Pod,” she instructed him, “And bring me Stranger's tack,”

Brienne swiftly set to work on Stranger, making soothing noises as she did, and soon had his coat glossy, mane combed and hooves polished. All the while, Stranger stood like a gentleman, politely picking up his hooves to be picked out. He tensed somewhat when Brienne tightened the girth, but under Brienne's gentle hands and soft words he remained calm. Indeed, his ears had pricked forward as though anticipating a ride.

The stable hand, Bronn, nodded approvingly at the sight of him when Brienne had finished her ministrations. “A woman's touch,” he announced, “That's just what he needed. Horses, they're bloody clever see. If he had a bad time with men, then he will remember, but women he might just let on his back,”

Brienne mounted the great black stallion, for once in her life needing a mounting block to do so. As she spurred Stranger onto a brisk walk, she quickly discovered that he disliked being held back and so allowed him his head, giving him just enough rein to stop him from pulling. She directed him with firm, clear orders; no thrashing arms kicking legs, to which he responded to perfectly.

With a squeeze of her leg, Stranger broke out into a bright trot, and Pod and Bronn had to refrain from cheering out. The sight was not pleasing for everyone, however. With a red faced glare, Mr Lyle Crakehall, the head stableman, marched toward them and cuffed both of them round the head.

“You fools!” he growled, “What are you thinking? Letting 'is Lordship's lady up on that beast!”

Brienne trotted towards the fuming stableman, and spoke down to him from Stranger's back.

“I wasn't aware, Mr Crakehall,” she informed him coldly, “That stable hands allowed ladies to do anything. I gave orders and they obeyed. Be rest assured that Stranger is behaving beautifully for me, and I would not be so reckless to mount him if he had not,”she turned her head to face an overgrown gate, that opened to a pretty lakeside path. Without turning to look back at him, she called over her shoulder, “Open up the gates. I shall be riding Stranger by the lake,”

Due to Stranger clearly having gone a while without being properly exercised, Brienne restrained herself from working him too hard, keeping him going mostly at a walk or trot. This was done with great difficulty, for the daredevil within her longed to ride him at a full on gallop. She did allow herself to speed him up to a canter. As the wind whipped through her hair and bit at her cheeks, Brienne relished the stallion's long, powerful strides.

She knew that at any moment that Stranger could bolt, or throw her from his back. If he did, Brienne would be powerless and almost certain to break her neck. And yet Brienne felt no fear, for she felt in her bones that he would keep her safe. Her pounding heart seemed to beat in time to the thud of hooves against the ground. Up ahead of them laid a wide tree trunk that had fallen across its path. Sharp, twisted branches stuck out viscously from the gnarled wood.

Without thinking, Brienne rose in her seat and Stranger cleared the hurdle with ease, flicking his tail contemptuously and earning himself a slappy pat on the neck. She reined him in, slowing them down to a trot and allowing them both the chance to breathe. Brienne took the opportunity to take in her surroundings. The lands surrounding Casterly Rock were untamed, and ravishing in their wildness in a way that was far more pleasing than the trimmed, measured gardens outside the castle. The cliffs and the sea was different to the ones on Tarth, larger and more awe inspiring, without the flowered meadows and gently shadowed vales of home. Both were beautiful, both were mesmerizing, and both were hers.

She was the mistress of two dazzlingly beautiful lands. It seemed rather ludicrous that Brienne could look out at the ancient mountains and endless sea and call it her own. Presumptuous even, to the extent that she dare not do so. Just as how she could not bring herself to call herself Stranger's mistress, when he was so much stronger than she was.

Nevertheless, she found herself entirely at home on Stranger's back and hope that one day, she could say the same for Casterly Rock.

Her reception on returning to the stables was far from homely. Instead, she was met with a fuming husband, who was soundly berating Mr Crakehall for allowing his wife to ride off on a 'untamed beast!'

“Don't blame me!” Crakehall cried defensively, “I tried to tell her it was madness, she wouldn't listen to reason!”

“And did you not think to send a groom out after her?” Jaime demanded, “What if the wretched creature threw her off and she's lying in a ditch God knows where with half her bones broken?”

“I am sorry to disappoint you husband,” Brienne called as she trotted into the yard, “But I am here, hale and hearty, if not somewhat tired,”

Jaime's eyes widened in seeing her, for, unbeknownst to her, sitting there atop the proud creature and flushed and windswept in her riding habit, she truly did look quite marvellous. Nearly handsome, in fact. And more than anything else, she was actually smiling!

Jaime glowered as he stalked up to her.

“What the Seven Hells were you thinking?” he demanded through gritted teeth, endeavouring to keep his voice steady, “Galloping off like that on the back of this mad creature,”

“Actually,” Brienne corrected him, “I didn't gallop, he's been gone too long without a rider for that,” seeing the look on his face, and feeling somewhat chastened, she added, “I am sorry. I did not mean to cause alarm. I just thought Stranger could do with some exercise,”

Jaime rolled his eyes, “And so you decided that you would be the one to give him that exercise,” he stuck out his hand to help her dismount, “Honestly Wench, I don't know what is more astonishing. Your foolishness,” he pressed a fevered kiss against her red cheek, “Or your courage!”

 


	11. chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Some mentions of Domestic Abuse

“That is an interesting gown you have on tonight, sister,” Cersei announced prettily, “I would never have thought of putting a lady with your colouring in such a dress,”

Brienne shifted in her simple green dress, plucking awkwardly at the lace of her sleeve. She smiled uneasily and returned to her book, trying to focus on the words before her.

Coffee in the Drawing Room with Cersei after dinner swiftly became the least favourite part of Brienne's day. Cersei shared her brothers' acidic tongue, but lacked all their warmth. She took malicious pleasure in watching Brienne squirm, making her feel like both a lumbering aurochs and an insignificant gnat. Cersei would comment on Brienne's apparel, on her carriage and conversation, until Brienne was red in the face from all the back handed compliments and sugar coated insults.

Fortunately, the Lannister brothers would usually take pity on her and be quick with their port, so that Brienne need not be left alone with their sister for too long.

For all of their teasing, Tyrion always seemed to smile whenever he saw her, and Jaime had taken to watching Brienne exercise Stranger, calling out compliments and advice as he saw necessary. They may not be able to refrain from commenting on her height and clumsiness, but every jibe or jeer was accompanied with a squeeze of the shoulder or poke to the ribs. And so Brienne grew to learn that there was no genuine malice behind Jaime and Tyrion's mockery.

Indeed, she was beginning to suspect that was how they expressed affection.

Tyrion sat with Brienne round the coffee table, whilst Jaime nodded his head at his wife and went to join Cersei upon the kissing couch. Cersei's voluminous satin skirts were spread across the couch, forcing Jaime to perch uncomfortably on the end. Brienne watched discretely over her the top of her book as Jaime reached out for Cersei's hand, only for his sister to stiffen and pointedly pick up her embroidery. Jaime recoiled ever so slightly, surprised at Cersei's aloofness. Tyrion caught Brienne's eye and quirked his eyebrow. Brienne gave a tiny shake of the head, whatever was going on between the golden Lannister Twins, she was staying out of it.

Lately, Brienne found that she could genuinely enjoy her husband's company, much to her surprise, on the condition that they never discussed the incestuous elephant in the room.

After staring at his twin in confusion, Jaime finally stood up and sauntered towards Brienne and Tyrion with a nonchalant air.

“Cards?” he asked carelessly.

Tyrion nodded, swiftly downing his wine and making room on the table, but Brienne frowned and shook her head.

“I cannot play,” she admitted.

“You don't even know what game I suggest we play?” Jaime protested.

“If it involves cards, presume I do not know how to play it,”

“You don't care for cards?”

“They are not a pastime I find much pleasure in,”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”

“Because card games require one to conceal their true feelings, and tend to both encourage and reward deceit,” Brienne explained, looking him square in the eye, “And I care little for lying,”

“You have an interesting moral code, my love,”

The 'my love' seemed to awaken something within Cersei, who promptly placed down her embroidery and coughed. Jaime, Brienne and Tyrion turned to face her with varying degrees of polite curiosity. Cersei stared at Jaime with narrowed eyes as she spoke.

“It may interest you to know,” she announced, “That I shall be visiting Lady Taena at Merryweather Hall. She has been good enough to invite me for a sennight, I do so long to see her again,”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, his dislike of the plan apparent. “And what pull does Merryweather Hall have for you?” he began shuffling his pack of cards in agitation.

Cersei straightened her back and tilted her chin. “Oh, Lady Taena has planned some trifling amusements for us, I know she intends to hold a house party at the end of the week,”

“And will my dear niece Margaery be attending?” Tyrion asked innocently.

Cersei scowled, her green eyes turning to icy flints of jade at the mention of her good daughter's name. “I think not,” she replied delicately, “No doubt she is off parading herself round Storm's End in one of those ridiculous get ups,”

Brienne eyed the peacock plumes stuck in Cersei's intricately braided hair, her triple row diamond choker and her skirts that took up entire doorways, and made no comment.

“Although,” Cersei added, “She has let it be known that Rhaegar Targaryen shall be attending,”

Jaime scowled, his jaw going rigid. “I do not like that man,” he said, his voice taut with loathing, face still but hands cutting and shuffling the cards even more rapidly “It is bad enough you saw fit to invite that wretch to the wedding, must you really continue an acquaintance with him?”

“I don't see why not,” Cersei said, “Indeed I find him to be most charming. I know that you've had a few trifling quarrels-”

“Trifling quarrels!” Jaime snorted.

Cersei continued blithely on. “But I do not see why I should deprive myself of such a pleasant acquaintance,”

Jaime tilted his head, “Of course,” he snarled, “You may befriend whomever you see fit,”

And with that, he slammed the pack of cards down on the table and marched from the room., brushing aside the footman in order to slam the door behind him.

Brienne hesitated momentarily, before rising in her chair and softly following Jaime down the hall and into his study. She watched as Jaime shrugged off his jacket and tugged at his cravat, leaving his shirt open at the neck. Through the fine lawn shirt, Brienne could see the muscles of his arms as he paced up and down against the fire, and then slumping unceremoniously down in his seat.

“Well, come in then and stop lurking,” he snapped.

Brienne walked in and gently shut the door behind her. Jaime impatiently gestured for her to sit down in the seat opposite him. In the gentle gloom of his study, the firelight threw shadows over his face, highlighting the greys in his hair and the line round his eyes and mouth. Maddeningly, they only made him appear more attractive, more distinguished.

“Lady Cersei,” she began, almost timidly, “She lives here, and you are Casterly's master. I am sure that if you wish it, Cersei would not attend Lady Taena's house party,”

Jaime's face softened. “Cersei is used to being mistress of her own home,” he explained, “As much as she loathed Robert, I know she misses it. It galls her greatly to live on the charity of others. I shall not prevent her form doing what she wishes,”

“But if you disapprove of Lord Rhaegar-”

“Disapprove of him?” Jaime sipped his glass of wine. “Did you know,” he said, wiping the back of his mouth with his sleeve, “That we were friends once. In the army,”

Brienne could not help the dropping off her jaw. Jaime smirked on seeing her befuddled face.

“Ah, heard the rumours have you? Well, this was long before all that business with Lord Aerys. Even before he ran off with Lyanna Stark,” Jaime sneered. “Stark. All so bloody righteous and honourable. Well, I'll tell you, that Stark girl was no better than she ought to be. I know-” he cut Brienne off, “That Cersei and I have shown little consideration for wedding vows, but Robert Baratheon was a vile drunkard who had more whores than he had glasses of wine. And you and I... well, we have our arrangement,”

Brienne nodded, tight lipped. Jaime regarded her momentarily, almost in concern, before she offered up and smile and encouraged him to continue.

“But Elia,” he sighed, “Elia was sweet, gentle. And she adored Rhaegar. You know she almost killed herself trying to give him a son and heir, and when she had a daughter, nearly killed herself again all over. But that still wasn't enough for Rhaegar. Oh no,” he laughed, “No. He runs off with Lyanna Stark, a sixteen year old girl in her first season he met once at a house party up at Harrenhal. All the time he was there he fawned over her, fetching her plates of food and dancing with her every evening. Elia was humiliated, though she never let it show, she was too dignified for that. Then, whilst he was staying up at Summerhall with his father, he disappeared, leaving Elia stranded there with Aerys, who utterly despised her,”

“You sound as though you were fond of Elia,” Brienne said.

“I was,” Jaime admitted in a soft, almost tender voice, “She was a fine woman. Loyal, kind, and devoted to her family. We were good friends, I was even her daughter Rhaenys's godfather,”

“And then the accident happened?” Brienne probed him gently, “The fire at Summerhall,”

Jaime's eyes darkened as he slunk into his seat, “That was no accident,” he murmured.

Brienne's eyes widened in shock, and she was just about to ask what he meant, when they heard a commotion coming from the doorway. They both started from their seats and rushed out, to see a furious and very wet Lord Tarly standing on the doorstep, fuming and spitting as he shoved the footman aside.

“No I shall not wait!” he shouted, storming in out of the rain, “Take me to her! Take me to the little slut!”

Jaime placed himself before Brienne, his arm on her belly keeping her back.

“Lord Tarly,” he said charmingly, “I had not thought to see you. Not since you refused the wedding invitation. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Do not play coy with me Lannister,” Tarly growled, thrusting his finger into Jaime's face, “Where is she? Aha!” he lurched forward and grabbed Brienne's arm, only for her to yank it back, throwing Tarly back on his heels. Jaime smartly stepped between the two and fixed Tarly with a cold glare.

“I will thank you,” he said quietly, “To keep your hands off my wife,”

Tarly's lips disappeared as he met Jaime's eyes.

“Do you know what this wretched girl has done? She has turned me into a laughing stock. She had brought dishonour to herself, to her family, to _my_ family. She is a disgrace!”

“The only disgrace I see,” Jaime informed him, “Is you. Barging into a gentleman's home and assaulting his wife. I suggest you leave presently Sir,”

“Wait!” Brienne called. Tarly's soaked cape had swung open, and at his hip she spied a familiar sword. “That's Oathkeeper,” she explained to Jaime, “That is my sword,”

Tarly drew himself upright. “Foolish girl,” he sneered, “This is my sword. My wife has sent on all your possessions, without my permission I may add,” he grumbled under his breath, “I was most displeased when I discovered her disobedience and chastised her accordingly,”

Brienne gagged. Lord Tarly respected his wife, but he was still willing to make use of his husbandly rights as he saw fit, lawfully keeping his rod thinner than his thumb.

“That is my sword,” she repeated, “My father always intended for it to come to me when I came of age. You will return it,”

Tarly regarded her disdainfully, before addressing Jaime once more.

“You have done me a great wrong in marrying this girl,” he declared, “But in doing so you bring about your own punishment. She is an unfortunate, unnatural creature. I would suggest you beat her regularly, see if you can teach the wretch her proper place,”

“And I would suggest,” Jaime snarled, “That you leave. Now,”

Lord Tarly turned his back and disappeared once more into the night, Brienne's sword still strapped to his hip. Brienne watched it hungrily, never once taking her eyes off Tarly's retreating form.

**#**

Jeyne's presence was unannounced. She arrived at the gate of her childhood home with the evening post, with nothing but a small bag of possessions and the clothes on her back. A footman did not greet her, but a stunned and sloppily dressed maid, whose hair was coming down in frazzled ringlets and uniform was a size too small, as well as being frayed at the edges.

As she stepped into the hall, Jeyne noted a distinct lack of male servants, along with a coating of dust along every surface. It seemed that her family's circumstances had diminished even more since she had been away.

_'But then, what was I to expect?'_ Jeyne thought bitterly.

She watched in silence as her mother descended from the staircase, hand running lightly down the bannister. Eleyna and their brothers trailed behind her, lingering at the top of the staircase. They watched ins silence as Lady Sybelle glided towards Jeyne. The gloom of the dark corridor threw half their faces in shadows, but Jeyne could see they were white and apprehensive.

Lady Sybelle drew to a halt before Jeyne, her glittering dark eyes boring into Jeyne. Jeyne held her gaze uneasily, dropping her head.

“Mother,” she said softly.

The blow her mother landed her sent her back on her heels. Numbly, she lifted her hand to cradle her cheek, feeling where her mother's wedding ring had struck her and drew blood. Lady Sybelle grabbed Jeyne's hair and yanked her head up, forcing Jeyne to look her in the eye.

“I should you cast you out,” she spat, “Throw you to the streets since you're determined to put us there,”

Jeyne remained silent, watching as her mother started trembling violently, pointed nails digging into her scalp. She was dragged up the stairs, her sister and brothers backing against the wall as Lady Sybelle stormed past. Jeyne stumbled and tripped as her mother towed her down the hall way, before wrenching Jeyne's bedroom door open and flinging her in.

Jeyne collapsed to the floor, wincing as Lady Sybelle gripped her fingers and ripped off her wedding ring. Without sparing her daughter a second glance, she slammed the door and turned the key, locking Jeyne in. Shaking, Jeyne clutched her sheets and hauled herself onto her bed. There she lay, in her worn walking suit, cushions growing wet as her tears leaked down her cheeks. She watched unmoving as the last of the evening sun set, and her unlit room was plunged into darkness.

Eventually, she heard a click at the door, but made no move to see who had entered.

“Jeyne?” a timid voice said.

Jeyne forced herself up, turning a stiff neck to see her sister, hovering in the doorway. Eleyna picked up a tray of food at her feet, holding a candle aloft in the other, before briskly entering the room and closing the door behind her.

Eleyna placed the tray on Jeyne's bed and sat down beside her.

“Jeyne?” she said once more, “I thought you might be hungry,”

Jeyne had not eaten all day, and she could not deny that she felt rather hollow. Still, she doubted a bowl of watery soup and some coarse bread would fill the hole in her stomach. Eleyna placed a tender hand on Jeyne's shoulder, and Jeyne felt her heart lurch at the gesture. She reached up and clasped Eleyna's hand in hers, giving a watery smile to her little sister.

In-between spoonfuls of soup that sat like lead in her stomach, Jeyne pressed Eleyna for details about what had happened to the family.

“Raynald has found a position at Baelish Bank, and is covering Rollam's school fees. But we had to dismiss all the male staff, as well as my Governess. Fortunately, Mother's old Governess has opened a school for young ladies which I will be attending when term starts,” she grimaced, “Septa Unella has agreed to reduce my fees in return for my tutoring the younger students,” here, her voice turned thick, “If our circumstances do not change, I may have to stay on as a teacher,”

“But what about your Season?” Jeyne stammered.

“I may not have one,” Eleyna admitted. Jeyne watched in horror as Eleyna''s eyes grew heavy with tears and her chin wobbled, even as she tried to keep her face set and calm.

“No,” Jeyne sat upright in her seat, “No, you will have a Season, I will see to it,” she promised.

Eleyna smiled, but remained unconvinced. She gathered up at tray and pecked Jeyne on the cheek.

“I must go now,” she said, “I'm not meant to be here. Mother has forbidden me from seeing you,”

She made her way to the door, but paused, hand hovering over the door knob. She turned to face Jeyne one more time.

“Do you... do you regret it?” she whispered.

Jeyne sighed and sunk against her cushions. “I regret marrying Robb,” she said, “I cannot deny it. But I don't regret loving him. I will never regret loving him,”

**#**

Jaime had no intention of visiting Cersei that night. Ever since the wedding, a change had come over them. He had thought that Cersei might have been jealous of Brienne, but Cersei quickly put that idea to rest. But instead of returning to his chambers alone, he resolved to pay a call upon his wife.

Brienne had said little after Tarly's impromptu visit, except for repeating once more that the man had her sword. She went to bed shortly after, seeming unsurprisingly disturbed by the encounter. Jaime resolved to give her the time to calm down, waiting up in his study, before making his way to her chambers and knocking upon her door. He was met silence. He knocked once again, more insistently, but still no reply.

With growing curiosity and a rapidly diminishing respect for personal space, he let himself in. He could faintly make out Brienne's form lying beneath her sheets, and made his way towards her.

“I don't believe that you didn't here me knock,” he announced, “A wife should never keep her husband meeting. It is very undutiful of her,” he broke off, frowning as he sat himself upon Brienne's bed, and promptly discovering that no woman lay there, but a pile of cushions.

He stared at the cushions and groaned. “Damned stupid Wench,” he swore, moving swiftly towards Brienne's wardrobe and yanking on a cloak. He hurried down the stairs and crossed the hallway, pausing only momentarily to gather up his pistol from his study. He stumbled through the rain towards the stables and made straight for Stranger's box.

He was gone. In his stead was young Podrick Payne, who was huddled in the corner.

“Milord!” he cried on seeing him, “Milady... she left and I couldn't stop her-”

“She's gone after Tarly, hasn't she?” Jaime cut him off.

Pod nodded. “Yes milord,” he admitted.

Jaime swore. “Bring me my horse and help me mount,” he ordered him, “I'm going after her,”

 

 

 


	12. chapter 12

Fear kept her going, through the cold and the pain. Fear and jubilation. She was soaked to the skin, and her shoulder felt as though it were on fire, but her father's sword was back to where it belonged. At her side. Stranger thundered beneath her, the clever horse twisting and turning through the trees with little direction. Brienne lurched forward as the reins slipped through her finger, and buried her hands in his mane, hanging on for dear life. She trusted Stranger to bring her home safe.

Tarly had handed over the sword, being obliging enough with a pistol pressed to his temple. But when her back was turned, he whipped out his own and shot after her fleeing form. That the bullet managed to find her at all through the rain and the darkness was a miracle, but it did little more than graze at her shoulder. It burned bloody murder, but Brienne was able to push herself on. The shot spooked Stranger, but only spurred him on faster, he wasn't going to let his mistress be hurt. Soon, they were far from the main road and near home safe.

“Brienne!” a voice cried through the pounding of the rain, “Brienne!”

Brienne whipped her head up and searched desperately for the source of the voice.

“Brienne!” it cried again. It was Jaime.

With great difficulty, Brienne reined in her frantic steed. Jaime galloped from the darkness, and drew himself to a halt beside her. As he drew nearer, Brienne could see the panic on his face, which melted away to annoyed relief.

“Thought you'd go for a midnight ride, did you?” he asked in a not so nonchalant voice, glaring furiously at her, “Seven Hells! What did you hope to achieve?”

Brienne smiled weakly and nodded at her sword. “Well...”

Jaime shook his head. “You're a bloody mad Wench, you know that?”

“I'm beginning to suspect it,” Brienne admitted.

Jaime narrowed his eyes as he took how Brienne held herself, stiff and favouring her shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

“My shoulder. But not badly, I think,”

Jaime leaned over and took her reins in his. “I will lead you home,” he said.

Brienne made no argument. Instead she allowed herself to slump down in the saddle and rest her head against Stranger's mane. Jaime guided her safely home, grumbling all the time under the din of the rain. On reaching the courtyard, he helped her dismount and bid a waiting Pod to take the horses back to the stables. The rain was beginning to clear and streaks of pink and orange were beginning to spread against the sky.

Jaime took Brienne back to his own room and helped her change into some warm clothing, before having her lay down face front on the bed. With surprising gentleness, he tended to the wound. She whimpered slightly as Jaime cleaned out the wound.

“It is nothing serious,” he assured her, “It's just a graze,”

“You appear quite confident,” Brienne remarked as he bandaged it up.

“Learnt in the army,” Jaime explained, his voice growing harsh, “I'm particularly good with burns,”

Brienne remained stiff and silent under his hands, before asking softly “Did Aerys Targaryen cause the fire that killed Lady Elia and his children,”

Brienne felt Jaime's hands linger hesitantly over the wound, then once more returning to his ministrations.

“Why do you say a thing like that?” Jaime demanded gruffly.

Brienne rolled over slightly. “Because you said that the fire was no accident. And you...”

“And I killed Aerys Targaryen,” Jaime finished for her. His forehead furrowed, but he did not seem angered by Brienne's inquiry. He ran a light hand across Brienne's hair.

“Even if I did not have my suspicions, I would have killed him nonetheless. It was at the end of the war in Essos, and we had come to a small Ihazareen village. They were a peaceful lot, but Targaryen believed them to be Dothraki savages and ordered us to raze the village to the ground. All throughout the war he would go above the call of duty, do things no one asked of him. But we would all turn a blind eye. Then we reached that village and ordered us to destroy it. Burn it. Force the Ihazareen inside and torch their houses. 'Burn them all' he said, man, woman and child. I can still remember the look in his eyes, as though the flames were already lit within him,” Jaime let out a bark of laughter, “When I put my sword through his back, no complaints were voiced nor tears were shed. I have known men who would follow their commander into a dragon's lair, the men in Aerys Targaryen's company would have fled into one to escape him. We buried the body and swore ourselves to secrecy, but gossip got out. Still, not one of them would have testified against me in court. Why would they? They loathed him, and feared my father.

As for Lady Elia, and little Rhaenys and baby Aegon, yes, I do believed he killed them. He seemed a bit too happy to watch innocents burn for me not to do so,”

“And that's why you despise Lord Rhaegar? Because he was not there protect them,”

“Because he humiliated her, abandoned his children and yes, because he failed to protect them,” Jaime confirmed, tenderly brushing a lock of hair from her face. “Instead, he was off getting that Stark girl pregnant, and when she died, handed the babe over to the Starks and hid himself away on Dragonstone to lick his wounds,”

Jaime shook his head and set about changing out of his own, wet evening clothes, before returning to Brienne's side. He helped turn her over so that she could rest comfortable against the cushions.

“How is the pain now?” he asked gently.

“Sore, but I will live,”

“May I make a suggestion. Next time you decide to go haring off in the middle of the night, _tell me._ If only so I can get our stories straight if the constables come a calling,”

Brienne smiled sheepishly, “I will,” she promised.

“I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised,” he admitted, “You're too much like me. You need adventure. And is suppose that riding at break neck speed on a half mad horse will only do for so long,”

“Stranger isn't half mad,” Brienne protested, “He just needs firm handling,”

“I'm beginning to think the same of you,” Jaime gathered up the bandages. “I don't think you have much to fear from Tarly. Lannisters have been getting away with much worse. But you will want to look out for that shoulder, and get plenty of rest tomorrow,”

“What shall we tell Lady Cersei and Tyrion? About why I need to stay in and rest,”

“How about, over-exertion in bed?” Jaime suggested, a twinkle in his eye.

Brienne blushed furiously. “I can't tell them that!”

“Of course not, too great a lie. And you do hate deception,” he smirked and drew himself, giving a slight bow, “My Lady, I shall leave you to rest,”

And with that, he was gone.

**#**

The letter she wrote to Theon was curt, informing him that Roose Bolton had been pressing them for an announcement. Therefore, if he wished for her to keep his promise, he would have to provide an alternate plan in haste. She waited in anxiety for a reply, but not the one she received. Theon accosted Sansa as she took a walk in the gardens.

“Theon!” she cried, “I did not know that you were here,”

“I just arrived,,” Theon took Sansa's arm in his, “And I came to see you directly. Tell me, have you kept your promise? From your last letter I gathered you were under pressure,”

“Ramsay and I are not yet promised,” she replied, “But Lord Bolton is currently negotiating a price with Bran and Mama,”

Theon sighed in relief. “Listen,” he said urgently, “I have sold Pyke,”

“Sold Pyke?” Sansa repeated, “I do no understand,”

“I do not want it. It is the grimmest, most miserable place that anyone has ever had the misfortune to call home, excluding a convict, but I got a good price for it and I'm glad to be rid of the place,” Theon explained, “I know I'm not a Stark. But Winterfell is the closest thing to a home I ever had, and Robb was my brother. For that sake, I would do everything to save Winterfell, and you,”

Sansa caught her breath as Theon sunk awkwardly to his knee. “You would buy Winterfell?” she asked quietly.

“Aye, and wed you, if you be willing,” Theon confirmed, “And Bran and your mother. I can't offer what Lord Bolton does, but it will be sufficient. I could also cover the boys school fees and even buy Jon his commission,”

“He won't accept it,”

“I'll press it on him,” Theon insisted, “And I'll pay for Arya to... do whatever Arya wants. I'll buy her a commission if it comes to that,”

“But...why?” Sansa stammered.

“For Robb,” Theon said simply.

Theon could be crude, and vulgar, with not a shred of sensibility within him, but compared to Ramsay and Lord Baratheon, he was a veritable gentleman. And she had known him since she was a child, there was fondness there, undeniably so, it was more than what most had. Winterfell would be saved, she would be wed to a Great Lord and be a Great Lady. That was all she ever wanted.

Well nearly all.

Theon did not make her heart flutter, and was marrying her for love of her brother as opposed to for her.

“Well?” Theon pressed, “Do you accept?”

“Talk to mother and Bran,” Sansa told him, “The decision to sell Winterfell is theirs,”

“And if they agree,” Theon asked insistently, “What then?”

“Then, I will accept your proposal,” Sansa said calmly.

Something in Theon's face fell at the Sansa's collected tone. Sansa found herself thinking of happier times, back when father was still alive and Sansa still sought romance at every turn. When the boys were back from school they would put on plays in the Drawing Room. Sansa would claim the role of romantic heroine in each one, and Theon would be her hero through the virtue of not being her brother, Jon always being forced to don a dress and take on the remaining female roles.

(He had no desire to, but his luscious curly locks and constant pout made him all too perfect for the role.)

And now, Theon was kneeling before her and asking for the chance to make their childhood plays a reality.

Theon stood and she allowed him to take her arm once more. They walked back to the castle, arm in arm, and Sansa resolved that with Theon she might just be content.

**#**

Brienne usually loathed being forced to lay about, but the previous night deemed it necessary. She ached all over, her shoulder especially. She was content to make up on the lost sleep, snuggled up in the sheets that smelled of her husband. She near slumbered all day, awakening only when Jaime came up with a tray of food, which he would share with her as he lounged casually at the end of the bed.

It took until mid afternoon for her to grow hot and restless. Her arm was in a sling, excused by a tumble down the stairs, and so she was required to ring for a maid's assistance to dress. Pia helped her change into a simple cloth dress that was more appropriate for morning than afternoon, but was comfortable and loose. Pia went to fetch the comb to attend to Brienne's hair, only for Brienne to dismiss her.

“Thank you Pia,” she said kindly, “I can do the rest myself,”

Although it was often unavoidable, Brienne disliked being dressed and did avoid it when possible. Pia bobbed a polite curtsey and left Brienne to comb the knots of her tangled hair out herself. Brienne stepped out into the corridor, relishing the cool draft after the growing stuffiness of her bedroom. There in the corridor, she saw little Pia being soundly chastised by a fuming Lady Cersei.

“You stupid fool!” she spat at the cowering Pia, “Look what you have done!”

“What is going on here?” Brienne asked, stepping forward and placing her hand on Pia's quaking shoulder.

“Just look at what this little idiot did,” Cersei cried, gesturing to the wine stains spreading across her green muslin skirt.

Brienne raised an eyebrow, “It's a bit early for wine, isn't it?”

Cersei flamed red and reached out to snatch at Pia's arm. Brienne quickly wrapped an arm round her shoulders, feeling herself grow sick at the sight of the blood on Cersei's fingernails. She led Pia away and inspected her cheek.

“Did you strike her?” Brienne demanded.

“It is my right to discipline the staff as I see fit,”

“Except that it is not,” Brienne pointed out coldly, “If you have forgotten, I am the mistress of Casterly Rock and the discipline of the servants is my prerogative and I shall not have you lay your hands on them!”

“Oh I quite agree,” a cool voice remarked from the end of the corridor. All three turned to find Jaime watching them, a inscrutable look on his face. He strode towards them and gently tilted Pia's chin up so that he may inspect her cheek.

“That will bruise,” he said softly, “It is best you go down and have that seen to,” he turned to Brienne, “If it please my Lady wife, you may take the rest of the day off,”

Brienne nodded, “Of course she may,” placing a gentle hand on the shivering maid's arm.

Pia scurried away, casting an anxious glance over her shoulder at Cersei's seething form.

“Jaime-” Cersei protested, Jaime swiftly cutting her off.

“My Love,” he addressed Brienne courteously, “Will you be so good as to accompany me downstairs.

Brienne blinked, but lay her hand on Jaime's arm and descended down the gold staircase with him, leaving Cersei in their wake.

 

 

 

 


	13. Part 3 Chapter 13

**Part Three**

 

“What do you mean you are marrying him?” Jaime thundered, pounding his fist against his desk.

Cersei tilted her chin imperiously. “Lord Rhaegar asked me at Lady Merryweather's house party,” she explained, “I thought it prudent to accept,”

Jaime shook his head, feeling dizzy as the blood drained form his face. “I can't believe this,” he said numbly, “After all this time, after all we have been through, you say you are going to marry this man. Rhaegar Targaryen!”

Cersei sneered. “You forget, brother, that you yourself has since been wed-”

“For you!” Jaime pointed out, “I got married, so you wouldn't have to. The whole point of my marrying Brienne was so that I could support you, and we could be together,”

“One may easily be led to think otherwise, considering how you fawned over her the other day, humiliating me in front of the staff like that,”

“You were beating a child for spilling your wine,” Jaime growled, “Was I to stand by and watch that happen?”

“I was assured that I would be Lady of Casterly, in all but name. Instead I find myself reduced once more to the role of guest. I will not live on the charity of others,” she declared, “I need to become lady of my own home once more,”

Jaime knelt down before her, begging, pleading. He knew that he and Cersei had been drifting away, but for her to put such an end to things! And now, when they finally had the freedom to be together as they pleased, after they had waited so long. Was years of longing and agony whenever they were parted to end like this? Cersei casting him aside?

“Cersei, please,” he said, clutching at her skirts, “Do not do this. You cannot marry Rhaegar Targaryen. He is a vile man!”

“Lord Rhaegar is a perfect gentleman,” Cersei stated, “He was most attentive at Lady Merryweather's house party,”

“You said so yourself that you loathed Robert for his infidelities, how is Rhaegar any better?” Jaime pointed out.

“He only ran off with that Stark girl because Elia Martell was too mousy, too dull and lacking the wits to keep him. If I had been his bride he would never have given Lyanna Stark a second glance. I know it to be true, I have always known it. When he asked me to be his bride he proved me right,”

“Always,” Jaime repeated, “Always? How long have you wanted him?”

Cersei rolled her eyes. “He is a great catch, naturally I have always held an interest,”

“And all that talk you gave me about you never loving anyone else, never wanting anyone else, was that all a lie? Did you ever feel that way, truly?”

Cersei could not even bother to answer his questions and put him out of his misery.

“I will marry Rhaegar Targaryen,” she repeated firmly, “Get off your knees and stop grovelling, you look pathetic.,”

And with that, Cersei rose regally from her seat and glided to the door, lingering only to call over her shoulder “I shall be staying at Lady Merryweather's until the wedding, as it is clear that you cannot be reasonable about the whole affair, “

She nodded her head, before flinging the door open and striding out and into the Drawing Room without a second glance. Jaime watched her go, before slamming the door to his study shut with a slam. Thankfully, neither one saw the pair flattening themselves against the wall and hiding behind the door, through which they had been eavesdropping.

“Well,” Tyrion remarked dryly, “Oh dear,”

“I did not know Lord Rhaegar was in love with Lady Cersei,” Brienne said.

“Neither did he, probably,” Tyrion said, “Cersei might have dreamed up some torrid emotional affair between them, but I doubt he ever truly thought of her. The only reason I could think of him deigning to look to her after all this time is in the hopes of having another child and preventing Lady Daenerys from inheriting Dragonstone. I hear she's become a bit of a maverick, and consorting with the most inappropriate people. Getting into all sorts of scandals, it's even rumoured that she is not quite virtuous. I had best give her a call some time,” he mused.

“Lady Cersei says that Lord Rhaegar was very attentive at the party,”

“And I'm sure my sweet sister responded very well to his attentions. Possibly even pre-emptively,” he regarded Brienne with a serious face and a twinkle in the eye, jerking his head towards the door, “I believe your husband is in deep grief, will you go comfort him?”

“No,” Brienne said decisively, “Not yet, I dare-say I'm the last person he wants to talk to. I shall give him time. If he needs me, I'm there,”

Tyrion frowned. “I must say, your compassion for your husband's troubles is quite astounding. Not many ladies would show such care for their husband's incestuous relationship coming to an end. Indeed, most can be quite unsympathetic in such circumstances,”

Brienne sighed. “I know it's not a normal response,” she admitted, “But then, I don't think I know how to do normal,”

“I concur that you have a rather singular way of dealing with conflicts,” he agreed, “But don't be ashamed! You get so tired of all the same people you meet, you grow to cherish the odd spark of originality in an otherwise dull world. You will find that out when you are my age,”

“You're only two years older than me!”

“It's a very dull world,”

**#**

Her day began and ended with each arrival of the post. Yet for every ten letters she sent, she'd be lucky to receive one in return. There had been an offer from Lady Stokeworth, inquiring after her services as a governess for her daughter's bastard son. The salary she offered had been good as well, but not enough for Jeyne to succumb to temptation and accept. The circumstances of poor Lollys Stokeworth's pregnancy were well known, and if Jeyne were to work for the family then the Westerlings would lose whatever meagre standing in society they have left. They were already dangerously close to descending from aristocracy and into the dreaded lower gentry, what with Raynald and Eleyna working, and Rollam soon to follow.

Unfortunately, Jeyne's own scandal greatly limited her chances of employment and she could not be too picky. In the end she accepted a position with Lady Barbrey Dustin. Jeyne was reluctant to return North, no matter how vast it was and how far she would be from Winterfell, but more than anything she wanted to escape her mother. Escape her mother, and start pulling her own weight. Because regardless of whether they liked it or not, it seemed that the circumstances of the Westerlings were destined to change, and they simply had to accept that.

The salary Lady Barbrey Dustin offered was meagre, and the lady herself was a shrewish, bitter woman. But hopefully, through scrimping and saving, her wages would be enough to keep the wolf at the door long enough for Eleyna to have her own taste of society. Eleyna deserved to experience her fair share of balls and amusements. And as it was Jeyne's own actions that greatly risked Eleyna's chance to do so, it seemed only fair that it was Jeyne who saw to it she could.

She would not let family down. Not again.

**#**

Lady Catelyn had to sit down, Bran reaching out to put his hand on her shoulder. Sansa smiled slightly at the sight. Ever since Robb's death, Bran had taken his role of head of family to heart, as well as Lord of Winterfell, for however long Winterfell was his.

“I did not expect...” Lady Catelyn stammered, “Theon, this is an incredibly generous offer,” she stared at Theon in amazement . She had known him as a mischievous young boy and watched him grow in into feckless young man. Catelyn had never expected him to be anything more than a rake. To live his life frittering away his fortune on dice and drink and doxies. And so the sober and respectful face he made as he pressed his suit for her eldest daughter's hand knocked her for six.

“I know that this is out of the blue, my Lady,” he said earnestly, “But I am sincere in my request for Lady Sansa's hand. And I will do all I can to be a good husband to her,”

“You would-” Bran began hesitantly, “You would give up your own home for Winterfell?”

“Forgive me for being presumptuous, but Winterfell was always more my home than Pyke ever was. I love this place,” he said, casting a glance out the window and onto the grounds, “This is where I have been happiest, and I could not see it fall into the hands of a man who sees it as nothing but a piece of capital,” his jaw tightened, “Nor Sansa as a bargaining piece,” he added hotly.

Catelyn raised an eyebrow at Theon's familiar tone, but turned to Sansa.

“Sansa,” she said, reaching out her hand for Sansa to take, “Come here,”

Sansa joined her mother and brother by the desk as Catelyn gripped both her hands.

“Do you want this?” she asked, “Would you prefer a match with Theon as opposed to young Ramsay Bolton?”

Sansa pecked her mother on the cheek, and went to Theon's side.

“Oh, infinitely mother,” she assured her, “Infinitely,”

Theon's face turned as surprised and vulnerable as a little boy's, before a genuine smile lighted upon his face. He raised Sansa's hand to his mouth and kissed it gallantly, causing a pink flush to spread across Sansa's cheeks. She was somewhat surprised to Theon's tenderness. She knew he was not marrying her for love.

Well, that was not entirely true. He was marrying her for love of Winterfell and for her family, especially for Robb's memory. Still, it was better than marrying her for a love of wealth and prestige. Nor could she deny that her own motivations were not vastly different.

And yet, whenever Theon took her hand in his, she could not help but marvel at how well they fit together.

“So,” Theon asked, an eager strain to his voice, “Do you accept?”

Catelyn turned to Bran.

“I have no reservations,” she informed him, “But it is your decision, my Sweetling,”

“If it is what Sansa wants,” Bran said gravely in all his eleven year solemnity, “Then I accept Lord Theon's offer, and give them both my blessing,”

“Very well then,” Lady Catelyn said decisively, swallowing an awkward lump in her throat, “In that case, I suggest you go out and make the announcement official to Jon and Arya and Rickon. No doubt they're waiting out in the hall, eavesdropping,”

No doubt Lady Catelyn was right. When the door swung open, Jon stepped back smartly, pulling a confused little Rickon back with him as he tried to feign an air of nonchalance, as though he were just passing by.

Arya, on the other hand, crossed her arms and stuck out her chin imperiously, “You are buying Winterfell and marrying Sansa,” she stated.

“I am,” Theon confirmed.

“Well then, I trust that you will take care of my sister, and see that you don't hurt her. Lest you intend to suffer my severe displeasure,”

Jon chuckled in bemusement. “Umm, Arya, shouldn't I be doing that?”

Arya scoffed. “Theon needs to be scared of the consequence of hurting Sansa, he won't be if it's you making them known. I'm sorry Jon, but you're just not that threatening,”

“I'm afraid I have to agree Jon,” Theon put in, “Arya, on the other hand, utterly terrifies me,”

Well pleased at being called terrifying, Arya smiled and nodded in satisfaction, assured that her sister's honour was protected.

“Well, little man,” Theon knelt before Rickon, “It seems I am about to become your new brother,”

Rickon frowned in confusion and glanced up at Jon. “But I thought you were already my brother,” he had so many brothers and not brothers but who seemed like brothers, that it was difficult for his four year old mind to keep up. Sansa and Theon shared a laugh as Theon reached out and ruffled Rickon's curly locks. “You always were my favourite, little man,”

They went to move into the sitting room, but as Theon went to follow the girls and Rickon, Jon caught a hold of his arm and dragged him back round the corner. Pinning Theon against the wall, Jon looked over his shoulder and dropped his voice into a menacing growl.

“I may joke, but I trust that you are aware of what will happen to you if you do hurt or betray Sansa in any way,”

“Of course, mauled to death by direwolves?”

“Exactly,” Jon smiled politely and released him from his choke-hold, “Now then, let us go join the others to celebrate,”

**#**

In a fit of jubilation over finally nearly free of her sweet sister's shadow, Brienne took Stranger out on a gallop across the cliffs. The sky was bright and the air was brisk, and by the time Brienne arrived home her cheeks were flushed, stretched out by an uncharacteristically wide smile. She felt it was almost a pity to go back inside when the weather was so fine, but she had been out all morning and luncheon was to be served presently.

Humming as she stepped into the gloomy hallway, she found herself being waylaid by her husband. Jaime was smiling, pleased by the healthy colour in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes.

“Husband,” Brienne greeted him, “I must go up to change for luncheon,”

“There will be no need for that,” he informed her, gently taking her elbow and leading her back outside, “We shall be having our lunch in the in the gardens,”

“Well let me change first,” Brienne protested.

“We cannot delay, I have a guest waiting for us,”

Brienne tried to halt. It was one thing to eat in her riding habit with just Jaime present, Tyrion having since departed for Lord Redwyne's Vineyard, allegedly on business. It was quite another to eat so attired before a guest. Nevertheless, Jaime continued in towing her along.

The guest was a young man, a gentleman in his air and carriage, but slovenly and unkempt in his manner of dress. Jaime introduced him as a painter. He was lounging against a tree trunk.

“I have commissioned him to paint your portrait,” he informed her, “It's about time I had one made. If you're going to go haring off on your horse every hour of the day I should have some way of looking on my lady's face,”

Brienne shook her head and made to rise, “Oh no,” she protested, “I cannot,”

“Nonsense,” Jaime said, taking her arm and seating her by the base of a large oak tree, “You are Lady of Casterly Rock. It is only fitting that you should have your portrait painted,”

“Well, at least let me change,” she begged as the painter whipped out his equipment.

“Oh no you don't,” Jaime shook his head, “I like you just the way you are, red faced and bright eyes. Everyone can see that you've been riding hard and fast,”

Brienne's face burned as she looked desperately at the painter, in the vain hope he had not heard.

“Please refrain from making any more such comments, my Lord,” the painter remarked lightly as he began his sketch, “If you continue in this manner I will not have a red deep enough to match my Lady's blush,”

 

 


	14. chapter 14

Brienne preferred to avoid mirrors when possible, so having a full sized oil painting of herself, her face captured and preserved in paint, hung on on display for all to see would usually be her worst nightmare.

In truth, it was not to bad. All throughout her sitting, Jaime had been making cutting jibes as the painter sketched her face. As a result, the finished portrait had a look of reluctant and slightly disapproving amusement. She was posed resting casually against the oak tree, her hat at a rakish angle and whip laid becomingly across her lap. The flush of her cheeks and blue of her eyes made her appear as though she had just dismounted from a long ride.

There was also a sword at her hip, and the faint image of a broken down carriage in the background, a black silhouette against the steel grey storm clouds. Brienne had been reluctant to have it painted in, but Jaime assured her that Lord Tarly was unlikely to bestow the honour of his presence on Casterly Rock again. And his pride made him even more unlikely to admit to being robbed, even if he had his suspicions as to who it was. To admit to having once more been humiliated by the girl who had made him a laughing stock would have been his final fall from grace. And so, the secret of Brienne's midnight escapade would remain between herself, and Jaime.

And probably Tyrion. He had not said anything, but his constant ever knowing smirk had led Brienne incapable of believing he did not know.

Brienne took another look at her visage. Rosy cheeked, blue eyed and with tendrils of blonde hair dropping becomingly round her face. She suspected the painter had flattered her somewhat, but not to ludicrous degrees that rendered her unrecognisable. He had not painted her as a great beauty that when seen, guests would inevitably raise their eyebrows and titter. Brienne had feared that even more than if the painting was wholly accurate.

Jaime certainly seemed well pleased with it, and decided to put it in a prominent position in the grand corridor, taking its place alongside other members of the illustrious Lannister family. She lingered before it, gazing up at her lightly smiling visage.

“I see you are admiring yourself,” a cool voice stated.

Brienne turned to see Cersei standing beside her, dressed immaculately in her travel clothes.

“Lady Cersei,” she murmured, “I thought you would have been gone by now,”

“My carriage will wait,” Lady Cersei informed her, going to join Brienne in her examination of the portrait, “A pretty picture,” she remarked, “I dare-say the artist took some liberties,”

“I dare-say,” Brienne agreed lightly.

“It is fortunate, considering the portrait has been put in pride of place. Do you know what portrait was moved to make room for it?”

“I'm afraid I do not,”

“Come, I shall show you,”

Lady Cersei led Brienne down a narrow, stone corridor. There, a beautiful oil painting hung crookedly on the wall. It depicted Lady Cersei sitting demurely by a harp, Jaime to her side with a sword at his hip. They looked younger, Jaime only half a man and Lady Cersei in her first bloom of womanhood, dressed in a girlish confection of pink and cream lace with matching roses in her hair. For all their youth and seeming wholesomeness, they both shared a sardonic smile and quirk of the eyebrow, as though both amused by some secret joke.

“Father had that commissioned for our eighteenth birthday,” Lady Cersei told her, “And had it unveiled at a ball. Of course,” she snorted bitterly, “That portrait was not the only thing on display that night,”

Cersei had never spared and opportunity to pick at Brienne's flaws, but on hearing that, Brienne found she knew Cersei's grief all too well, and felt a stirring of compassion within her. Her hand twitched out and gently placed itself on Cersei's arm. Cersei did not seem to notice, remaining in her reverie as she stared up at the portrait.

“That was where I met Robert,” her voice suddenly turned hard and cold, nearly causing Brienne to recoil and remove her hand, “We danced twice, conversed once, and were engaged within a sennight. He only asked because his father had threatened to cut him off if he had not. I dare-say he and father were in negotiations long before we ever met. But had Lord Rhaegar not been engaged I would have refused him. I never wanted Robert, but it was only after we had wed that I found out just what a boorish, drunken brute he was! Still, I did my duty to him as wife. I suffered his attentions and bore him three children, then he frittered away all my Dower lands and left me a penniless widow! Forced to live off handouts from my brother and son,” she spat.

“But you are to wed Lord Rhaegar now,” Brienne pointed out optimistically, “And be Lady of Dragonstone,”

“Oh yes,” Cersei laughed, “Now, after all these years, I have finally found a man who is worthy of me,” she turned to Brienne with a look of seething dislike, “And just look at you. An ugly, lumbering creature who fled from her own marriage and yet somehow has managed to become Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock at nineteen!” Cersei drew herself up, and went on in a quiet, soft and yet venomous voice, “That portrait of myself and Jaime has taken pride of place for twenty two years. Now, Jaime has shunted it aside for a newer painting,” she stepped closer, hissing in Brienne's face, “But do not be fooled. He may hide our painting away in some dark corridor, but he will never throw it out. It has been here too long,”

Brienne tilted her chin and stared down at Lady Cersei unflinchingly. “I do not doubt it,” she said dryly, “In truth, I do not,”

**#**

Little Rickard and Willam Dustin were hellions, the both of them. They would charge up and down the corridors, screaming bloody murder. They purposefully made messes on newly cleaned floors by spilling their milk and throwing their food, right in front of the maids and ordering them to clean it up. They broke vases and scratched chairs and blamed it on the servants, whilst planting stolen ash trays and ornaments in the maids' bedrooms. In one day, they got into nine vicious scraps, kicking and biting each other and anyone who tried to separate them. By the time Jeyne was given leave to retire to her room, she as all over in bites and bruises.

Jeyne was not permitted to eat with the family, Lady Dustin was clear on that point. She was keen Jeyne knew her place and treated her with little more regard than she did the parlour maids. Her bedroom was in the family's part of the house, but was a tiny bedroom next to the nursery. Sparsely decorated , a narrow bed and a small desk and chair, with only a small fireplace. Her poky window faced away from the sun, and the short Northern days ensured that Jeyne saw little light.

She sat at her tiny desk and poked at her meal of stodgy dumplings, tough beef and over boiled vegetables. Not only was Jeyne not invited to dine with the family, she was also refused the same calibre food. She suspected that her menu was the same as the staffs', only colder from being served up from the kitchen after the staff had eaten. Jeyne rather wished that her fall into the lower orders had been complete, so that she may have some company. Instead she was deprived of company when not in the presence of the two little monsters and Lady Barbrey, who took a petty delight in using her position to degrade and demean Jeyne, knowing she could never raise a word of protest.

As she forced down the last of her food, Jeyne stretched out on her bed and flicked through her small pile of letters. Jeyne smiled to see a letter from Eleyna. She ripped open the envelope and hungrily devoured each word. Buried away up North with no one but the wretched Dustin boy and the repugnant Lady Barbrey, she relished any word from her family.

Eleyna's letter was cheerful. Conditions at Septa Unella's Seminar for Young Ladies sounded little better than Jeyne's at Barrow Hall, but Eleyna claimed to enjoy the company of other girls. She wrote happily of the mischief they got up to, flirting with the delivery boys and bribing them to smuggle them treats, and staying up at midnight to eat and gossip. She seemed to be thriving in her studies as well, even winning a reward forHigh Valyrian. Most of all, Eleyna admitted to enjoying tutoring the younger students.

Jeyne smiled proudly at Eleyna's accomplishments. Clearly, her little sister was dealing with the Westerling's fall far better than Jeyne or their mother. Indeed, she seemed to be prospering.

Jeyne tenderly laid Eleyna's letter side, with plans to read more later, when she came across another letter, this one with the Baratheon seal on. She frowned in confusion at the contents. Lady Margaery Baratheon had written to inquire after her services as a companion. Now that her ' _Dearest cousin Elinor has left Storm's End and is soon to be wed'_ Lady Margaery admitted to being _'Bereft of a companion and in sore need of female friendship.'_

Jeyne could not comprehend why Lady Baratheon would approach her to become her companion, when there were so many other ladies more suitable. And the salary she offered was generous in the extreme! She re-read the letter in the hope of finding some clarification.

_'I could think of no one more suitable,'_ Lady Margaery wrote, _'than you, my dear Lady Jeyne. After all, we were so close to becoming kin.'_

Close to becoming kin? Jeyne thought that surely the incident of her engagement to Lord Lannister would have made her a less favourable companion for the Lady of Storm's End, not more.

And then it hit her. Lady Margaery's feud with Lady Cersei was well known. Lady Margaery surely couldn't think of anything finer than befriending and taking in the woman who had so insulted Lady Cersei's brother.

Jeyne glanced at Lady Margaery's offer. True, the position would be much more pleasant and Lady Margaery was an amiable creature, far more so than Lady Barbrey. And to be a companion would once more make her a true member of society, as opposed to the hellish limbo of being a Governess. The connection could only be beneficial to dear Eleyna when the time came for her Season.

Still, Jeyne was hesitant. Did she truly want to enter into the petty squabbles of the two ladies? Allow herself to become a pawn in their vicious games.

She snatched up her pen and swiftly began composing her reply.

Yes. Yes she did.

**#**

“Mad Wench,” Jaime declared as he placed his hands on Brienne's hips and helped her dismount, “Jumping that ditch was pure insanity. I should have you sent to an Asylum,”

“You jumped that ditch too!” Brienne protested, breaking away from Jaime's grasp and taking Stranger's reins into her hand.

“Well, then I should go to the Asylum with you,” he leaned forwards, whispering into her ear, “We could share cells,”

Brienne's already flushed face burned bright red. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, to see several of the younger stable hands watching and smiling, whilst Bronn smirked and winked. Jaime's hand ran lightly down Brienne's sweat soaked back and rested gently on her hip, keeping her pinned to him as they made their way to the stables.

“Jaime, please,” Brienne murmured as she struggled to break away, “People are watching,”

“So? I am their lord and you are my wife, they're hardly going to act disrespectfully. Besides, what do you suppose they think whenever I come to your chambers? That we're holding hands reciting from the Seven Pointed Star?”

“I'd rather they weren't thinking of us at all,”

“Why ever not? I can assure you that you have nothing to be ashamed of. And I would know,”

Brienne flicked Jaime lightly with her riding crop, causing him to yelp in mock pain. He glowered at her and grabbed a hold of her wrist.

“Now, now wife. We shall have none of that,” he told her sternly, “Come. Leave the horses to the groom and attend to your poor, abused husband,”

He dragged her back to the house, ignoring Brienne's curses as she stumbled and tripped over her feet, velvet skirts flapping about her ankle. Nevertheless, a smile had formed on her face at her husband's antics.

The Butler met them as they came tumbling in from the stables, presenting Jaime with a silver tray. From it, a neat letter stared arrogantly up at them. Jaime took the letter and dismissed the Butler with a curt nod, the smile fading from his face.

“It's from Cersei,” he told Brienne, “She has set a date for the wedding,”

“Will we be going?” Brienne asked softly.

“I am afraid it is unavoidable,” “Jaime pointed out, “People will talk if we do not,”

Brienne raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware that was something you were particularly concerned with,”

“It's something Cersei is concerned with, and I would have her marriage begin with a good start,” Jaime explained, “If only because that would make life more easy for all. I know Cersei well enough to know not to invite her ire for love or gold,”

“Especially as you already have enough of the latter,” Brienne pointed out.

“And love?” Jaime asked, quirking his eyebrow.

Brienne blushed and turned away. She could not bring herself to answer, Lady Cersei's parting words ringing all too loudly in her ears. She fingered the velvet lining of her cuffs, not looking him in the eye.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently.

Jaime dropped the letter and tugged Brienne towards him.

“Surprisingly,” he said, gathering Brienne into his arms, “I am,”

And with that, Jaime dashingly dropped her and pressed a tender kiss to her lips. Brienne allowed him to do so, but broke away with an awkward smile at first opportunity. Brienne had to admit that her husband was not only good humoured, witty and dashing, but surprisingly generous and kind hearted. She found herself looking forward to being in his company, and enjoying his presence more and more every day.

Gods help her, she was beginning to like him.

But still, she heeded Cersei's warning. Lord Jaime and Lady Cersei had spent their lives together, born on the same day and growing side by side. They were brother and sister before they were lovers. As sickening as it was, such a bond could hardly be forgotten. Those feelings, that obsessive desire which had been a part of them for as long they could remember, were not going to fade so easily. And a great, lumbering beast such as her was hardly going to come stumbling in and brush them all aside. Jaime still kept their portrait, hidden away as it was. And it had been there far longer than Brienne's.

And so, although Brienne willingly gave Jaime her friendship and respect, her heart was another matter. Her heart she was keeping firmly under lock and key.

 


	15. chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. You feedback brings me life. Just to clear up a bit of confusion, Jaime and Brienne consummated their marriage by now.  
> We're coming to the end of the story, with Sansa and Jeyne's arc at an end. However, these last few chapters should have things coming to a head for Jaime, Brienne and Cersei. Hope you enjoy!

Sansa's wedding gown was the first new dress she had made in years. Delicate dove grey silk and white lace, with pearls in her auburn hair hair. Sansa knew the effect must have been striking, for Theon's eyes widened as she entered the Sept on Bran's arm. Arya trailed behind, trying hard not to scowl for she too was wearing a new gown. Whereas Sansa relished the chance to wear a gown that had not been made-over ten times, Arya had grown used to not having to worry about the state of her dress. Still, she donned the stiff satin dress and followed her sister down the aisle of the Sept.

Memories of Robb's death were far too raw for the wedding to be held in the Godswood, though Sansa had spent the morning there, praying before she began her preparations. She awoke early especially to do so, grasping at the chance to feel near her father and brother. She carried a sense of the gentle melancholy she felt in the Wood into the Sept, as she was acutely aware that it was her father who should be leading her down the aisle, not Bran. And Robb should have been there also, probably standing beside Theon and smiling at seeing the two people he loved so be joined together.

All the nobility and gentry of the North were in attendance, and crowds of smallfollk had gathered to cheer on the eldest Stark girl to her wedding. The crowds were so large that guests were forced to stand in the small Sept, whilst others grouped round the entrance. And yet still, not all those she wanted most were there.

Sansa gilded down the aisle, with Arya taking care not to trip over her silk train as she followed behind, drawing pleased smiles from the guests. By the time she reached Theon's side, her mother was openly weeping.

Lady Catelyn had come to visit Sansa that morning as she dressed, taking over from her maid and brushing her hair out, just as when Sansa was a child. Lady Catelyn had been uncharacteristically sentimental and distracted. She kept dropping her hand and sighing, forcing Sansa to have to prompt her to continue more than once.

“I am sorry, my Sweetling,” her mother had said, “It's just... my first daughter married. I know this is a happy day but...” she trailed off, and gave a discrete sniff.

A happy day. It seemed so strange to call it that. In truth, too many people were missing for it to be so. It certainly wasn't the day Sansa had pictured in her dreams, for all the pomp and pretty dresses. For in her dreams, Robb and father had been there. She found herself quite willing to do away with all the fripperies and adornments which she once thought indispensable, if she could have her father to give her away.

She choked half-way down the aisle, thinking how unfair it was that Lord Eddard would not be there to see her wed.

Theon gave her and awkward yet sincere smile and Sansa found herself smiling back. He discretely took her hand in his and gave it a quick squeeze when she stumbled over the words. Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth, but she managed to get through them.

Finally, the time came for Theon to sweep his cloak over her shoulders and take Sansa under his protection. It seemed so ridiculously apt, considering Theon had wed Sansa in order to safeguard her form any other less tolerable matches. Theon draped the cloak over Sansa, his hands gentle as he did so.

When they kissed, it was not the kiss that Sansa had dreamed of as a young girl, long before Joffrey Baratheon put all such thoughts to bed. There was no great passion, sun did not stream through the windows and larks did not sing. Nonetheless, Sansa had to concede that the kiss was very nice. Very nice indeed.

She cast a glance up at the statue of the Maiden, to whom she had prayed to so many times, and wondered if she had been listening after all.

**#**

“He then writes _'And Jeyne is prospering at the Milliner's, whilst Willow's health is much improved'_ Septon Meribald also sends you his best wishes, Pod,” Brienne held out the letter for Podrick to take, “Would you like to read it yourself?”

Pod nodded eagerly and took the letter, stumbling over the words as Brienne began to gently stroke Stranger's velvety nose. Stranger nickered happily and brushed up against Brienne, anticipating she would be taking him for a ride today. He would have to be disappointed. She had not come to ride, but to say goodbye. Although he had come to allow Pod to groom him, it was now up to a dairymaid to see he was exercised. Still, it was Brienne he favoured and fretted after when she was gone for too long. It was a shame she couldn't bring him to town, but the chaotic streets of King's Landing and the long journey there would not have been good for him. He was still too sensitive.

“I have began to write a letter in reply,” she informed Pod, “Is there any message you would like me to add to it?”

“Yes please, milady,” Pod said, “But if I told it to you, would you write it down for me? And then I would copy it out. Now that he has taught all the others to read and write, it's a bit embarrassing for me to still be struggling,”

Brienne nodded, “Of course I will. Do you have anyone to continue your lessons while I'm away?”

“Bronn said he would teach me,”

“Really? That's... oddly charitable of him,” Brienne said uncertainly. She could only suspect as to what type of vocabulary the foul mouthed groom would pass onto Podrick.

“Be sure to write to me,” she told him earnestly, “I don't mind about the spelling,”

“There you are Wench,” a bemused voice called from the other side of the stable door, “I've been looking all over for you. I missed you at breakfast,”

“I was not hungry this morning,” Brienne explained. She had awoken that morning feeling deathly sick, her stomach throwing violent somersaults. It must be the thought of returning to King's Landing. So far she had managed to avoid her social obligations, Cersei's wedding would signal the end of that. The thought of standing in stuffy ballroom, being forced to chat and gossip whilst being judged and critiqued. Put her off any breakfast. Indeed, she had been feeling quite nauseous ever since the date had been set. If it continued much longer, she supposed she would have to see a physician. “I thought my time was better spent bidding farewell to Pod and Stranger,”

“Should I be jealous?”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “I was only reading a letter from Septon Meribald, passing his good wishes onto Podrick,”

“Well I too have received a letter from the good Septon. Although his is somewhat more mercenary. He's asking for another donation,” Jaime informed her.

“That was the deal we struck,” Brienne reminded him, “And it's not as though you cannot afford it,”

Jaime threw up his hands defensively. “My Love, believe me I am not complaining. Indeed, I find it to be quite refreshing to find a Septon who is open in his desire for money. Most strive to cover it up with pretty platitudes and promises of pleasing the Gods,”

“You speak as though all Septons seek for nothing more than to line their own pockets,” Brienne reprimanded him.

“And you speak as though they do not,” Jaime countered, grinning wryly, “Not that I blame them, of course, we must all eat. It just seems to me that most Septons believe that the worthiest cause a benefactor can contribute to is the satisfaction of their appetites,”

“Septon Meribald is the godliest man alive!” Pod piped up, deference cast aside in favour of defending the man who had fed and cared for him, “There is none more honest or selfless than him,”

“I do not doubt it,” Jaime assured Pod, “But he also lurks on Highways and robs travellers at gunpoint. Such is the world we live, in” Jaime gestured for Brienne to approach him and dropped a kiss to her hand, “Wife, we must make haste. Say your goodbyes quickly. We are due to arrive at Lannister House tomorrow at noon and Tyrion would never forgive us if we arrived late and left him alone with Cersei. Nor would she, now I think of it,” his eyes sparkled in devilish amusement, “Come to think of it, perhaps we should be late just to see the mayhem it would cause,”

Brienne shook her head sternly. “I would not cause your sister anymore vexation before the wedding that she must already be feeling, nor would I allow your brother to bare the brunt of it,”

“Of course you wouldn't,” Jaime shook his head mockingly, “Very well then. I shall meet you by the carriage. Now say goodbye to your horse with far more affection than you ever show me. Seven knows you came to care for that creature long before you did for me,”

“Stranger makes it easier for me to do so,” Brienne informed him.

“Really, how so? When he bucks you and bites you something raw,” he dropped his voice and slipped his hand down to her waist, leaning over the door, “At least when I bite you, it brings you much pleasure,”

Brienne managed to fight down a blush, having learnt to expect her husband's bedchamber talk. Still, she cast a quick glance at Podrick to ensure he had not overheard. If he had, he was doing a remarkably good job at pretending to be more interested in Stranger's coat. Jaime pressed a kiss to Brienne's cheek before departing for the carriage. Brienne sighed as she watched him walk away, whistling jauntily. She had swore to keep herself from loving him.

But he did make it so difficult at times.

**#**

Lady Baratheon's gaiety was almost frightening in its exuberance. She had greeted Jeyne with a high trill of laughters and an engulfing embrace, as though they were bosom friends long parted. Jeyne lingered in the entrance hall of the Baratheon's town house, conscious of her severe black dress made of shabby velvet. Lady Margaery Tyrell had certainly made her presence known in the Baratheon manor house. Everything was new and fashionable, with pots of roses planted in the corners.

Lady Baratheon looped her arm through Jeyne's and chatted amiably as she led her to the light and airy Drawing Room and gestured for Jeyne to take some tea. Although slightly overpowering, the lady's cheerfulness put a slight smile on Jeyne's face as she allowed herself to be swept away by her engaging stream of gossip and laughter.

Patting Jeyne's hand fondly, Margaery shifted closer in her seat and gave a dazzling smile.

“I am so glad you have arrived at last!” she declared, “It has been such a bore without Elinor, especially now that my dearest Joffrey is gone also,”

“Lord Baratheon is not here?” Jeyne asked timidly, “I had thought he would be in attendance for his mother's wedding,”

“Oh, you know how young men are,” Margaery said carelessly, “Always gallivanting off somewhere or another. Joffrey loves being busy, off hunting or travelling the Free Cities. Naturally, as his wife I want to make him happy, and I have convinced an uncle of mine who lives in the Free Cities to invite Joffrey on an expedition to the Souther Isles, which will satisfy his craving for adventure. Naturally his _mother_ wasn't pleased. Although,” Margaery broke off with an artful sigh, “I will miss my dear Joff. Who knows how long he will be gone for?”

For all her sighs, Lady Margaery did not seem particularly mournful to Jeyne. Instead she seemed quite content to live in luxury, free from any troublesome husbands. She could not help but compare their circumstances. Jeyne would have willingly endured poverty for Robb, whereas Margaery endured Joffrey for wealth.

Of course, now both had the poverty and wealth respectively, and both were without their husbands. Jeyne felt her chin wobbling, much to her annoyance. She thought she had cried herself dry.

Margaery stroked Jeyne's cheek.

“Of course, all this talk of husbands has made you melancholy,” she said, “I truly am sorry for your husbands death,” she said sincerely.

Jeyne thanked her quietly, well used to people's condolences now.

“Now we must find a way to cheer you up!” Margaery stated brightly, “I have so many amusements planned. We shall have such a merry time together, you and I,”

Jeyne managed a slight smile and nodded. Seven knew, she was ready for some merriment.

#

Cersei's greatest fear was having dark rings beneath her eyes. Her face had been powdered and painted to perfection, but she still feared that the ramifications of her disastrous night's sleep would leave its marks on her face. To save time, her magnificent hair had been set the night before and she was forced to sleep with her head on a wooden block. In the end, it took three glasses of wine to get her to sleep, only to be awoken a few hours later at the crack of dawn to begin dressing.

Her head pounding, she gave orders for her stays to be laced extremely tight, her lady's maid resorting to placing her foot on the small of Cersei's back for leverage. For all the discomfort it caused, the assault on her waist was worth it, and she once more had the girlish figure of her youth. She examined herself in the looking glass, critically assessing every wrinkle and line. Oh, how she yearned to turn back the clock, and once more become that enchanting girl of eighteen, with all her future before her.

She pursed her lips in bitterness, this day should have come years ago. Before she was wed to that brute. How many years had she wasted on weak men who did naught but disappoint her? Too long she had waited to find a man who was worthy of her. But today she would finally take her rightful place as a leader of society, with no whorish daughter in law or cow eyed goodsister to spoil things. Cersei honestly could not understand Jaime, bestowing his affection on such a wretched creature. But then, he always did have a fondness for the grotesque, as shown by his bizarre love for their impish little brother. Jaime had disappointed her, he was weaker than she had thought.

The maid released Cersei's laces and mopped her forehead. With the help of both the housemaids, she set about lacing Cersei into an exquisite red velvet gown, with panniers a metre wide and gold embroidery, the trailing skirts swept back with gold tassels to reveal a petticoat of heavy gold parchment lace. Shining black onyxes studded her bodice and glittered at her throat. Her brows plucked into elegant arches and a beauty patch placed becomingly on her cheek.

Let Margaery and her Tyrell cousins wear their skimpy muslin dresses, she was more a match than any of them.

When Jaime came to escort her to the carriage, she noted with the pleasure the effect her ensemble had on him. It pleased her greatly to show Jaime what he had lost. If he wished to for Lady Brienne to be his Lady of Casterly Rock, then let him. And whilst he languished there with his homely wife and hideous brother, she would reside in Dragonstone with her beautiful husband who would appreciate how blessed her was to have a woman like her.

She watched Jaime force his face into an expression of disinterest.

“Everyone is waiting in the Sept,” he informed her, “It's time to go,”

He thrust out his arm, barely glancing at her as she placed a dainty hand onto the velvet sleeve of his dark blue jacket. He accompanied her downstairs where the servants had gathered to catch sight of her in her finery. All through the ride in the open top carriage, onlookers cheered and clapped, many remarking that they'd never seen a more beautiful bride. Cersei had to fight back an indecorous smile, striving to look coolly pleased. As she rode in triumph alongside her stony faced brother, she could not help but feel that she was finally receiving her due.

At long last, the carriage drew up outside the Sept of Baelor, and with the help of the footmen, she descended. Jaime had clambered out before her and made no effort to assist her with her gargantuan gown, but she did not allow his petulance to ruin her day. For in the Sept, standing by the altar, was Rhaegar. He, and her future, were waiting.

#

Cersei certainly made a stunning bride, her hair powdered and styled in its most fantastical arrangements yet. Brienne shuddered to think how many hours it took to style. It was festooned with feathers and jewels. She had to admire Cersei's fortitude to withstand such weight, Brienne herself already being in severe discomfort with just a few hairpins digging into her scalp.

All through reception Cersei smiled and glittered like a ruby, Rhaegar tall and dashing by her side. Brienne stood by Jaime in the corner, seeking momentary refuge from their social obligations. Tyrion was with them, downing copious quantities of wine and looking merrier by the minute. Jaime himself had indulged in a glass or two, but Brienne wouldn't touch it. The mere smell of the stuff made her stomach lurch.

“Well,” Tyrion chimed, “Don't they make a handsome couple?”

Jaime smiled. “I fear for Rhaegar, Cersei will make him utterly miserable. But then again, he brought little joy to his previous wife, so it's safe to say they deserve each other,”

“Maybe they will be happy together,” Brienne suggested tentatively, only to be met with laughter of her husband and brother.

“Honestly!” she snapped, crossing her arms, “I'm starting to think you want them to be miserable,”

“Starting to think?” Tyrion repeated incredulously, “I thought I was being quite obvious. Clearly I must make my feelings more apparent,”

Jaime shrugged. “I don't particularly want them to be miserable,” he admitted, “But that is the truth and there is naught I can do about it. In truth, I do not think Cersei is capable of happiness. She wants the world and resents every compromise and sacrifice she is forced to make to get it. She would rather be feared then risk letting anyone in close enough to hurt her. She will throw any true chance of finding genuine love affection away in favour of wealth and status, for she is simply too cowardly to imagine a life without those things,” he smiled affectionately at Brienne, “I'm afraid my sweet sister is simply not as brave as some others,”

“Still,” Tyrion added, “Not all couples end that way. Just look at the two of you. I'm beginning to think of giving this marriage lark a go myself,”

“You?” Jaime scoffed, “You don't mean to say that you're days of whoring and drinking are behind you, do you?”

Tyrion shrugged. “None of us are as young as we used to be, brother. And if I wed, I can inherit the money father left me. Perhaps I will be careful spending money that is my own,”

“Perhaps,” Jaime agreed in amusement, “But who would you wed?”

“Roslin Frey?” Tyrion suggested, “I dare-say it's high time someone wed that poor girl and freed her from her father,”

“Someone already did,” Brienne informed him, “She is promised Lord Edmure Tully,”

“Really?” Tyrion asked in astonishment.

“I think they met at Robb Stark's funeral,”

“Well where was I when this happened?”

“Probably at a brothel,” Jaime chuckled.

“Ah, probably,” Tyrion agreed. He nodded his head to a pretty girl in the corner. “What about young Lady Jeyne?”

“Tyrion!” Brienne cried, “She's newly widowed, she's still in half mourning,”

“Well there's no hurry,” Tyrion assured her, “I would just befriend her first. Poor girl appears as she needs a friend,”

The widowed Jeyne Stark did look quite drained and wan, although Lady Margaery's constant gaiety managed to bring about a small but genuine smile to her pale face. She did look quite pretty in her light lilac dress, the style and cut of which suggested it to have been a gift from Lady Margaery. Cersei greatly resented both young ladies' presence at her wedding, but it would not have been seemly for Lady Margaery not to attend, and wherever she went, her companion followed.

“Maybe I shall go to speak to her, see if I can make her laugh,”

“And nothing else,” Brienne added.

“And nothing else,” Tyrion promised, before marching off into the young widow's direction. Soon, Tyrion had the pale, unhappy girl laughing quietly into her fan. Watching the pair, Jaime drew closer to Brienne and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“I heard the physician called yesterday,” he said softly, “Is all well?”

Brienne smiled, suppressing her glee. “There is nothing to be concerned with,” she told him.

“Well,” Jaime noted as Tyrion continued making Lady Jeyne laugh, “It appears that Tyrion is soon to leave us. And then it will just be us two,”

“Well,” Brienne said slyly, “Not just us two,”

“Well, us and an army of servants, of course,”

“And... one more,”

Jaime stilled, and dropped his hand to Brienne's stomach.

“You don't mean?” he asked softly.

Brienne gave a small nod, biting her lip. Throwing decorum to one side, Jaime gathered Brienne into his arms and crashed his lips against hers.

“So you're happy then?” Brienne asked.

“Happy?” Jaime cried incredulously, “I'm ecstatic. But,” his face turned stern, “I have to insist you must put a stop to any midnight adventures you may have planned,”

Brienne relaxed into his grip, unable to help the smile on her face. “In this,” she told him, “I am willing to concede,”

 

 


	16. chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning-Descriptions of miscarriage.

Dragonstone was by far, the grimmest, dankest place Cersei ever had the misfortune to set foot in. The rooms were dark, her own bedchamber cold and poorly lit. She would lay in her cold bed, teeth chattering, huddling beneath furs and blankets, her teeth chattering as the wind rattled through. The exterior was just as bad, with no light pleasure gardens, intricate mazes or perfectly sculpted hedges. Just those hideous stone dragons down on her and endless stretches of barren beaches.

Cersei quickly set about redecorating and furnishing her cambers to a more appropriate degree. Dornish carpets, silk wall hangings and ornate gold candelabras were ordered. Rhaegar, however, had been frustratingly frugal with her allowance and fought tooth and nail over every small change. What was the point in being Lady of Dragonstone when she was forced to live like a peasant? It seemed Rhaegar would rather preserve Dragonstone in all its ugly, brutish glory than live comfortably.

She supposed it held a certain melancholic beauty, much like her husband. But also much like her husband, she grew sick of it quickly. In just a few weeks into their marriage, Rhaegar rarely seemed to have any time for her. Instead he would go of on long walks along the grey coast, composing and humming to himself. He barely looked his new wife in the eye, speaking to her little more than to cautiously inquire after her health.

It seemed that Cersei had once more been purchased to be a broodmare.

On their first night as husband and wife, in the throes of passion, Rhaegar had cried out Lyanna's name. And then, later in the throes of a nightmare, he called out Elia. Cersei's name never crossed his lips. Of course lately, he never spoke to anyone at all, having retreated to his bed during a great bout of sickness and staying there for two weeks.

Jaime had worshipped her. Treated her like a Goddess. Things had been so perfect between them into that great cow lumbered into their life and stole Jaime from her. Seven take her! What an injustice it was, that she was to be sentenced to Dragonstone and her beauty left to rot, whilst that hideous, shambling creature inhabited her beautiful Casterly.

Cersei screwed the letter from Jaime announcing Brienne's condition into a tight ball and cast it into the fire. How he ever managed to bring himself to lay with the beast was beyond her. It had been his only letter since her marriage.

When she first wed Robert, Jaime would write to her every day, pouring out his heart. Sheet after sheet, declaring his undying love and devotion and begging for a reply. Of course, now he happily left her on this cursed island to whither away. The words of men were so fickle.

Not only was Dragonstone dark and miserable, it completely lacked any decent company. The only person she had brought herself to befriend was Doctor Qyburn, who was regularly called for to attend to her husband's migraines. She found him to be a most understanding individual, happily obliging her in dealing with her situation with her husband.

The two stood overlooking Rhaegar as he lay in his bed, muttering deliriously. He kept calling for Lyanna, and asking Elia where his children were. What little Rhaenys and baby Aegon were doing? He begged for Elia's forgiveness, and pleaded to see his children. Rhaenys and Aegon and even someone called Jon.

His pitiful cries stirred naught but contempt in Cersei's stomach. Let him cry out, he would be with his family soon enough.

Doctor Qyburn checked his pulse. “It will not be long now my Lady, a week at the most, you had best prepare yourself,”

Cersei smiled in satisfaction. “Have you brought more medicine?”

“Indeed I have,” Qyburn assured her, coaxing the vile liquid down Rhaegar's throat.

Cersei watched as a Rhaegar drooled a sticky brown trail down his chin, like a babe unable to eat.

“Pathetic,” she muttered, recoiling in disgust as Rhaegar broke out into a violent coughing fit. His skin was as white as his dry, brittle hair, and loose and creased like sheets of paper. He looked half a corpse, and yet still he stubbornly clung onto life. Cersei was tempted to up the dosage and be done with it, but Qyburn had cautioned her to take her time, least her involvement be too obvious.

She stood by Rhaegar and loomed over him.  
“Rhaegar!” she snapped, “Rhaegar, can you hear me? Rhaegar, I am leaving,”

“No,” he mumbled, “No don't go. Lyanna, don't leave me. Stay, please, Lyanna,”

“I'm not Lyanna,” she said through gritted teeth, “I am your wife,”

A faint look of recognition passed over Rhaegar's face. “”Elia? Elia, so sorry. Forgive Elia, never meant to hurt. Your or our children. Little Nessie, Egg, should have been there. Protected you,”

“I am afraid he cannot understand you,” Qyburn informed her mournfully, “He will be gone within a few days,”

“At this point, I'd say death was a mercy,” Cersei sneered as she watched her husband thrash and whimper in his sweat soaked sheets.

“When do you leave for Casterly Rock?” Qyburn inquired.

“Tomorrow morning,” Cersei answered, “Once my new gowns have arrived,”

She had thought it necessary to have several stunning new dresses made. Within a few short days of her stay she would be obliged to wear black, but until then she could do all that was possible to make herself look pleasing to Jaime.

“Do you wish me to accompany you?” Qyburn asked.

Cersei shook her head. “No, that will not be necessary. I remember your instructions. You remain here and attend to my husband,”

“As you wish,” Qyburn bowed obsequiously, “Of course, it is so good of you to go see your good sister at this time. It is most joyous news, although Lady Lannister must be careful. So much can cause a miscarriage,”

Cersei smiled and fingered a little green vial, “I am well aware,”

**#**

Cersei's presence was a surprise, and not an entirely welcome one. She had turned up at Casterly Rock, an enchanting smile on her face. She greeted them all warmly, even Tyrion, eliciting a few raised eyebrows.

“I suppose she's really quite sick of Dragonstone, and Rhaegar and his moods,” Jaime speculated, watching Cersei glide up the staircase to her chamber, “And now she's trying to charm us into allowing her to stay for a prolonged visit,”

“You can only imagine just how bad things are,” Tyrion mused, “When being in my company is preferable,”

Brienne rebuked them sternly, “You should not laugh, it is a shame your sister is so unhappy,” Brienne could not deny her sympathy for the woman, to find herself trapped in yet another unhappy marriage.

“My dear sister,” Tyrion quipped, “You speak as though she were actually human,”

Jaime chortled and slipped an arm round his frowning wife's stomach, hand lightly resting on her swelling belly.

All through dinner, Cersei smiled and laughed, whilst Tyrion, Jaime and Brienne watched her in apprehensive confusion. Peeking coyly up from under her lashes and twirling her blonde ringlets girlishly, Cersei was an enchanting sight in her green and lace confection. She always did manage to make Brienne feel dowdy and lumpen, even more so now that her ankles and stomach was swollen. She knew she looked even more a sight than usual, and was soon to grow positively gargantuan as the babe grew.

Brienne dropped her hand and rested it on her lightly swollen stomach. It was so strange a feeling to have a child growing within her. That she was forming an eternal soul was nothing less than miraculous. Jaime certainly thought so. They would lay together in bed, Jaime's head resting on her belly as he crooned gentle words through to their child.

Jaime had told her about Cersei's children, of vile Joffrey and sweet Myrcella who was engaged to a Martell boy, and Tommen living happily under his sister in law's care, and who they were to him. She knew what it meant to him, to finally have a child he could call his own. She was forced to admit that the hard armour she wore to stop herself from loving him no longer fit, with their baby growing in her belly.

Still, as much as she relished her condition, the constant sickness brought her rather less joy. Swiftly excusing herself, she exited the dining room in the search of a chamber pot. Ever since her pregnancy, she always made sure to keep once close at hand, in ever sitting room and hallway. There, she discretely relieved herself of the contents of her stomach.

Having done so, she slumped against the wall, panting. A gentle hand placed itself on her shoulder.

“Thank you Jaime,” Brienne murmured.

“Jaime?” Lady Cersei's voice broke out in amusement, “We do not look that similar, surely. The gown must be a hint,”

Brienne blushed, confused at the the gentle tone in good sister's voice. “I'm sorry, Lady Cersei. It was good of you to come out here. You did not need to do so,”

“Nonsense,” Cersei assured her, “Remember, I know all too well what it is to be with child. How uncomfortable and frustrating it is. The back aches, the sickness,”

“The headaches,” Brienne added, her own forehead pounding.

“Of course. I know Jaime is doing his best, but there are some things only women are aware of,” Cersei gently tucked back a matted of strand of Brienne's hair. “If you need anything, any advice, I am more than willing to help you,”

Brienne smiled uncertainly, “You're being so... understanding,”

“I had to go through three pregnancies without a mother to guide me,” Cersei explained, “It was terrifying, especially as she died in childbirth,”

Brienne nodded, a familiar stirring of fear welling within her, “As did mine,” she noted.

“Well see, there you go,” Cersei said, the warm candlelight glowing through her hair like a halo, “You need me,”

Brienne returned Cersei's smile, before lurching away and once more vomiting into the chamber pot as Cersei tutted sympathetically.

“Here,” she said, proffering a tiny green glass vial, “Drink this up. It's revolting but it will settle your stomach.

Brienne took the vial, “Thank you,” she said in gratitude, before downing it in one.

**#**

Jaime knew his wife never to be a heavy sleeper, but ever since the little once had started kicking and keeping its mother up at night, Brienne had become an utter nightmare to sleep beside. He tried wrapping his arms round his squirming wife, pinning her beside him, only to have her kicks and struggles force him to release her. He huffed in frustration and rolled over, turning his back on her. He clung onto the tips of their bread spread, Brienne's constant twitching and turning dragging the blankets over to her side and rucking up round her legs. Her thrashing had forced him to the end of the bed, as he struggled desperately to stay on.

“Brienne,” he ground out through gritted teeth, “Either find a way of staying still, or I will be forced to tie you down. It's your choice,” he frowned when she made no reply, “Brienne?”

Brienne let out a low moan of pain. He sat up and struck a match, lighting a bedside candle. Jaime turned to see Brienne's face, chalk right and clammy, screwed up in agony as she moaned.

“Brienne?” he asked anxiously, “What is wrong?”

He shone the candle over her, and with a jolt caught sight of the rapidly growing blood stains spreading across the sheets. Brienne's blue eyes were wide with panic as she stuck out her hand and grasped onto Jaime's.

“Oh shit,” he swore, pressing a frantic kiss against her forehead, “It's alright Brienne,” he reassured her, “Just wait here and I'll summon the physician,”

Pressing another kiss to her cheek and giving her hand a swift squeeze, before charging down the hall and pounding on Tyrion's bedroom door.

“Tyrion!” he yelled, “Tyrion! Open up, open up _now,”_

“Alright, alright,” a bleary eyed Tyrion mumbled, opening the door, “What do you want?”

Cersei came from her bedchamber, “Jaime?” she asked in wide eyed innocence, “What is going on?”

“It's Brienne,” Jaime gasped, “The baby, I think she's losing it,”

Tyrion blanched as Cersei gasped daintily. Brienne let out a loud, pained groan from her chamber, causing Tyrion to briskly pull on his overcoat and boots.

“I will fetch the physician,” he instructed Jaime, nodding to Brienne's chamber, “You see to your wife,”

Jaime nodded and rushed back to his room, Cersei hot on his heels. He knelt by his wife's side and clutched her white hand in his.

“It's alright Brienne,” he assured her, “Tyrion is going to find the physician and I'm right here,”

“As am I,” Cersei added, placing a light hand on Jaime's shoulder. Jaime ignored her, and continued pressing his lips to Brienne's hand as she tightened her grip on it in pain. He watched in silent horror as his wife sobbed and cried, their child bleeding out of her.

He sat there on his knees, helpless to do anything but watch and wait.

 

 

 


	17. chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter. Thank you so much for everyone who has stuck with it this far. In this chapter we're going to see the fallout of Brienne's miscarriage, so warning for lots of angst.

Jaime stared at the letter in his hand, a faint sense of regret stirring beneath his numbness. For all that he had come to loathe the man, dying alone and forgotten was a bitter way for anyone to end, Rhaegar included. And the entire circumstances surrounding his illness felt off. Nevertheless, even if he tried Jaime could not bring himself to feel a deep grief at his old friend's death. Not with his wife laying motionless on their bed, white and bloodless as a marble statue.

By the time the physician had arrived, the babe was lost and Brienne near dead to the world. Miraculously, he had managed to bring her back, but had informed Jaime that she would need time to recover. The rings under her eyes and deathly white face was testament to that. He sat beside her in silence, the heavy curtains drawn against the sun. He took her fail hand in his, tracing soothing circles in her palm with his thumb.

“Brienne,” he murmured, watching as her dull blue eyes flickered towards him, “How is the pain? Do you need any more milk of the poppy?”

Brienne shook her head. Indeed, she felt as though her stomach was ripped open, but the pain was the last thing she had left of her babe and she would bear it.

“What about something to eat?” Jaime nodded to the tray of food at the end of her bed,

Once more Brienne shook her head.

“Come now,” he said coaxingly, “You must eat something. You need to rebuild your strength,”

Brienne sighed and turned her head away. “Please leave me alone,” she muttered.

Jaime shook his head and pushed the tray insistently. “Just eat something, some bread or... fruit? How about an apple?”

Brienne remained silent.

“Or would you prefer some soup? A slice of cake? Cook has made that fruitcake you like, with the marzipan,”

Brienne's gave a tiny shake of the head, sinking deeper into her cushions.

“No, well what would you like?” Jaime probed.

“I would like,” Brienne said, “To be left alone,”

Seeing that it was hopeless, Jaime stood reluctantly and pressed a kiss to Brienne's cold cheek.

“Ring if you want something,” he told her, to no response.

He backed out silently form the room and shut the door behind him with a sigh. Brienne could barely stand to be near him, and could he fault that? When he was the one who had planted the babe in her stomach that dove her to the brink of death.

“Milord?” a tentative voice said.

“Podrick?” Jaime asked, looking up, “What are you doing here?”

“I was wondering if I may speak to Lady Brienne, if she is awake?” he stammered nervously, “I wanted to see.. if she was alright?”

“Well, she's not alright but you can speak to her if you wish,” Jaime said, jerking his head towards the door “She's not talking, and is refusing to eat. See if you can get her to swallow something,”

The boy entered the bedroom, wringing his cap in hand. Jaime watched him and hoped that he would do a better job of getting through to his wife than he did.

He was so useless. So utterly useless. It seemed to Jaime that he was losing his wife, that she was fading away before him and there was nothing he could do to help her. Just as he had been helpless on that night when their child was lost. How could he protect her as he had sworn to do so, when the enemy was her very body.

There was no villain to fight, no attacker to guard her from. Just random, ruthless bad luck. For all the guilt that Jaime bore, and anger that raged in his stomach, he knew that there was none to blame.

**#**

Cersei examined her reflection in the face of her mirror. She had rested all afternoon, so that her skin was clear and eyes were fresh, although she had practised an artfully somber and mournful expression in the mirror, suitable for a grieving widow. Appearing heartbroken but without pulling any wrinkles. Casting aside her usual elaborate hair styles in favour of loose, gentle waves framing her face, just as when she was a young girl.

What a pity it was that she had to do this wearing black, never a flattering colour on her. Still, it was worth it if she could be the Lady of Dragonstone. That hideous rock may be an eyesore, but it was also her key to freedom. Pinching her cheeks to bring about a bit of colour, she went off in search of her brother.

She found him lingering mournfully outside his wife's bedchamber door, looking more like a kicked puppy than a Lion of House Lannister. Still brooding over his ugly wife and little brat. It was tiresome that Cersei had to keep her alive, instead of just ridding herself of Lady Brienne and Prince Rhaegar in once swoop. But Qyburn had been right when cautioning her against using the same method twice. The little green tonic, a curious invention of Qyburn's that he promised would be less detectable than tansy.

“Women miscarry all the time,” Qyburn pointed out, “None would hold any suspicion if she were to lose the child,”

“Especially one with a form as unwomanly as hers,” Cersei added with a smirk, “Looking at her, one can be forgiven for thinking her incapable. Some women simply aren't made to bear children. That my brother could bring himself to touch her is a miracle, one she should be grateful for,”

The man truly was a godsend.

“Jaime,” she purred softly, placing a perfectly manicured hand onto his chest, nails curved like talons. “I am so sorry my Love,” she murmured into his ear.

Jaime nodded stiffly, and made to break away. Cersei caught a hold of his rumpled shirt, finger nails pricking through the fine linen. She rose onto her tiptoes so that her mouth hovered by his ear.

“Jaime,” she breathed, “We have both suffered a great loss. Let us be a comfort to each other,”

Jaime recoiled in disgust, catching her wrists and pushing her away from him. Cersei stumbled over her silk black skirts, but quickly righted herself. She straightened her dress and blew away a stray lock of golden hair.

“Are you mad?” he hissed, “Are you truly that foul? You would proposition me, here, when my wife is laying in the next room? May I remind you that your husband has not yet been day dead, and my wife has nearly died bleeding out our child! Do you truly expect me to take you back into my arms?”

“Take me back?” Cersei scoffed, “If I remember correctly, it was you who begged me to stay and never marry Rhaegar,”

“And refusing me then was the greatest kindness you ever did me,” Jaime informed her coolly, pure loathing burning in his cool green eyes.

“Jaime,” she pleaded, “Don't be like that. Rhaegar is gone, and that cow is hardly going to keep us apart. We can be together, like we always wanted,”

“Key word,” Jaime pointed out, _“Wanted,”_

He made to storm away, only for Cersei to block his path. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists, resisting the urge to shove her aside.

“We could go back,” she pleaded, eyes wide with desperation, voice cracking “We could turn back the clock. Remember when we were young, and all we wanted was each other. Remember who we were back then, how sure of ourselves we were, of our future. Now we can finally have that. Robert's gone. Rhaegar's gone. _Father's gone._ We don't need to hide our feelings anymore,”

“You are quite correct, sweet sister,” Jaime said, watching as Cersei's perfect pink lips curved upward in triumph, “I do not need to hide how I feel anymore. For I am sure there are many siblings who feel nought but contempt for the other,”

Cersei drew herself upwards, lips forming into a sneer. “It's because of her, isn't it?” she laughed hysterically, “Like millions of other women she suffers a miscarriage and bats her big cow eyes at you and you allow yourself to be ensnared in guilt,” she smirked and nodded, “Oh yes, I see it now. No doubt you felt some pity for her, the wretched creature, and in my absence you convinced yourself it was love,”

“You're deluded,” Jaime said in disgust.

Cersei kept on laughing. “Why am I not surprised? You always were a weak, pitiful man. So desperate for love that you would bestow your affections on all manner of the grotesque, knowing that they would never leave you,”

Jaime wordlessly shook his head and made to shove past her, only for Cersei to step into his path once more.

“But it doesn't have to be like that,” she looked up at him with pleading eyes, placing both her hands on his chest, “I will never leave you. I love you, Jaime I love you. I am a part of you, as are you for me,” she ran a long finger down his jaw, forcing him to look her in the eye, “One soul, two bodies. Remember?”

Jaime jerked himself out of her grip with a growl. “All too well,” he snarled, “I'd rather forget what a fool I was, to bestow my love on such a hateful woman, and waste years of my life on loving her. Well,” he said with a harsh bark of laughter, “I will never make the same mistake again. Now I know what it is to truly be in love, and with a woman who is good, and worthy of it. And that my Dear,” he glared down at her, “Is not you,”

Momentarily blind-sighted, Cersei gathered herself to let out a cackle. “But it is that ugly beast you picked up on the roadside, the one who let your child die?”

Jaime turned white. “Get. Out.” he said softly.

Cersei threw up her head and turned her back on the fool. Very well then, it had been a folly to throw herself at him. She didn't need him anymore. She didn't need anyone. She was Lady of Dragonstone. Let him waste the rest of his life with his menagerie of freaks. He would come to regret it. One day, he will remember the love they shared and realise his mistake. And then he will come begging, pleading on his knees for her. Of that, she had no doubt.

And when he did, she could cast him aside like the stray dog he was.

**#**

Pod had failed in convincing Brienne to eat. No word nor morsel passed her mouth. She lay there listlessly, staring at the closed windows. Pod couldn't bare to see this woman brought so low, so despondent. He looked at her with wide, stricken eyes, before departing, mumbling to his shoes.

He was only trying to help, as was her husband. She wished she could bring herself to find some compassion for them, but she was empty of any true feeling. Ever since her child had been ripped from her stomach.

How was it that only a day ago, a babe was dwelling safely beneath her heart, only to be gone within moments. She had managed to come round long enough to see the bloodied sheets be removed from her room. To think that was what had come of her child. She couldn't believe it, that pile of stained sheets could not be her child. She had known her child, felt it stir within her. And now, all those plans and hopes she had bestowed upon it, would come to nothing.

Over. It was all over.

“Brienne,” a voice called through the door, knocking lightly, “Brienne, it's me. May I come in?”

Jaime entered, looking disheveled and strained. “Brienne, how are you feeling now?”

Brienne closed her eyes and wished he would leave her. She could barely stand to look at him. To see the grief on his face, knowing how she had disappointed him. She was such a failure. And yet still he endeavored to treat her with tenderness and concern, showing her far more kindness than she deserved.

Her eyes welled with tears she did not think she had left. On awakening to find her babe was truly gone, and the whole ordeal had not been some hellish nightmare, she had screamed herself raw, weeping a torrent of tears. The whole time, Jaime had held her, rocking her back and forwards as though she were still a child herself.

He shouldn't be wasting his time on the likes of her. Not after she had let him down so disgracefully.

“Leave” she croaked, her voice dry and strained from lack of use, “Please,” she begged, “Just leave,”

 

 


	18. chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double post, and this is the final chapter! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed.  
> Trigger Warning-Suicide of major character (not Brienne or Jaime).

The glass slipped from Cersei's fingers and smashed to the ground in a million sparkling pieces. The lawyer raised an eyebrow and took a slight step back, so that he was out of her reach.

“What do you mean that Rhaegar left me nothing?” she hissed, “I am his wife!”

“Unfortunately,” Mr Varys said coolly, “Lord Rhaegar fell ill so quickly after the two of you were wed, that he did not have time to change his Will. As such, Dragonstone and its assets shall go to his closest legitimate relative, Lady Daenerys Targaryen,”

“Her?” Cersei spat, “That brazen hussy?”

“Brazen hussy or not,” said Mr Varys, “She is his heir and will inherit his estate,”

“Well,” Cersei grasped desperately, “Surely she cannot have inherited _everything?_ Rhaegar had millions stowed away,”

Cersei had been sure to inquire after Rhaegar's estate before accepting his suit. Despite his frugal, near barbaric lifestyle, she knew him to be in possession of a singularly large fortune.

“No, not everything,” Mr Varys confirmed, “It seems he has left a rather large annuity-”

“Yes?”

“-to his bastard son, Jon Snow. One thousand gold dragons per annum, to go to his children on the event of his passing,”

Cersei shook her head wildly. “You mean to say, that my husband had arranged for his bastard spawn and his non-existent children to be provided for, but not me? His wife!”

“No,” Mr Varys assured her, “that is not exactly true. Even before you were wed, he had made it explicit in his Will that any dependants after his death were to receive an annuity of fifty dragons,”

“Fifty dragons!” Cersei shrieked, “You mean to say that you expect me to live off _fifty gold dragons_?”

“I do not expect you to do anything,” Mr Varys informed her, “I am merely presenting the facts to you,”

“Well, what about my inheritance left to me by my father? Twenty thousand gold dragons, to come to me on the event of my marriage,”

“And then straight to your husband,” Mr Varys pointed out.

Cersei realised her hands were shaking. She let out a high, hysterical laugh. “This cannot be,” she shook her head numbly, perfectly coiled golden curls escaping their pins, “This cannot be,”

“Well,” Mr Varys mused, “You could always contest the Will. A sympathetic judge may ensure that you receive an annuity more suited to your station,”

“Yes,” Cersei said determinedly, “That is exactly what I shall do. I shall squeeze that Targaryen whore for every gold dragon she has. And that bastard too!”

“If you afford a lawyer,” Mr Varys continued, ignoring Cersei's declaration, “I know that Lady Daenerys is determined to fight for her inheritance, and has expressed a desire to safeguard the interests of her nephew,”

“How can I afford a lawyer?” Cersei snapped, “I only have fifty gold dragons a year, remember?”

“Come, come now, Lady Targaryen,” Mr Varys said soothingly, “Your brother is not short of funds, surely, nor is your son. I'm sure one of them must be willing to come to your aide,”

Cersei knew Joffrey wouldn't. That Tyrell whore of a wife had him wound far too tightly in her briars, sending him off to the Summer Isles for Seven knew how long, he had even allowed the Westerling girl to become Margaery's companion, despite having humiliated their family.

But Jaime... Jaime her twin. They had fallen out, but he wouldn't abandon her. Not now. Together they would fight for her inheritance, side by side as they were always meant to be.

Ignoring Varys, she grabbed a hold of a pen and poured her heart out onto a piece of paper, begging him to come to her aide.

“ _I need you,”_ she wrote, dots of ink flying as her hand whipped across the page, _“I need you as I have never needed you before. I love you, I love you, I love you,”_

She posted the letter first class. That done, all she had left to do was wait.

**#**

Jaime felt Tyrion's eye boring into his back as he watched Brienne through the window.

“I see she is recovered then,” Tyrion remarked lightly, “And back in the saddle already. Quite remarkable,”

“Hmm,” Jaime murmured in response, eyes following Brienne as she turned into a dot in the distance.

“I can see why she'd be anxious to be moving once more, after all that time in bed,” Tyrion offered, before asking “And the physician says she is well enough to do so?”

“Oh yes,” Jaime assured him, “She is quite recovered. Indeed, she spends all her time on the saddle now,”

“Just like before then,”

Jaime's head whipped round, eyes cold and hard. “No,” he spat, “Not like just before,”

Tyrion patted his arm. “I know, I'm sorry,”

Jaime sighed. “It's just, she won't speak to me. She barely looks me in the eye. She eats in her rooms then spends all her time riding,”

“This has been hard for her,” Tyrion said comfortingly, “Just give it time,”

Jaime's shoulders slumped. He rested his elbows against the cool damp glass, “I can't stand to know she's hurting, and there is nothing I can do to help her,” he said pensively, “Why is it that we, as men, place ourselves above all others and are then utterly helpless to protect those we love the most? A punishment from the Gods for our arrogance?”

“You're getting philosophical, brother,” Tyrion remarked dryly, “Jaime, listen. This wasn't some divine intervention from the Gods. There is no cosmic reason for what happened. It just did. And now we have to move one,”

“How?” Jaime asked hopelessly, his voice grew thick, “We had such plans. We were going to do so many things together,”

“You still can,”

“Oh really? Because unless I'm mistaken the babe whose future it was is gone,”

“There will be other children,” Tyrion said optimistically, “It hurts now, I know-”

“Do you?” Jaime let out a harsh, bitter laugh, “And how many children have you lost Tyrion?”

Tyrion recoiled at the venom in Jaime's voice, but nodded his head and pursed his lips. Jaime sat with his back to him, still facing the windows. Tyrion could see his back was tense and wound taught as a spring. He knew his brother, he was a man of action. To be forced into doing nothing, while his wife suffered, would be every layer of seven hells rolled into one for him. The unrelenting stress and worry of the past few weeks had taken its toil on his older brother. His clothing was disheveled, hair overgrown and face unshaven, dark rings circling his bloodshot eyes.

“M'Lord, M'Lord,” An obsequious voice said from the doorway. Tyrion turned to see the butler waiting, letter in hand, “A letter, from Lady Targaryen,”

Jaime remained facing the window, eyes scanning the horizon for a sight of Brienne, and so it was Tyrion who gestured for the Butler to pass it over. He read it quickly, skimming over the sugary sentiments and copious 'I love yous' and 'two body, one souls' and getting straight to the point.

“Oh dear,” he murmured, “Jaime, I think you may want to read this,”

“No,” Jaime said sharply, “I do not,”

“Jaime-”

“I don't want hear a single word that woman has to say. Whatever it is, I don't want to know,” Jaime snapped, glaring resolutely at the window. Tyrion re-read the letter once more, a growing sense of glee filling his stomach.

“Very well then,” he conceded, “It's your choice. What do you want me to do with this,” he waved the letter.

“Burn it,” Jaime ground out, “Just put it in the candle and burn it,”

Tyrion obeyed without question, happily placing his Cersei's desperate pleas for help into into the merrily dancing flame. With a slight grin on his face, he watched as his sister's last hope burned to ashes.

**#**

Her palms itched to land a stinging blow across the maid's cheek at her insolent reply, the same contemptuous “No letter from Casterly Rock, milady,”

What was taking Jaime so long? Cersei had expected a reply by morning, now days had passed. She couldn't understand it. In the past, whenever she called, Jaime would come running. So what was keeping him? A thought, a mad thought crossed her mind. She swiftly banished it from thought, but she could not the gut churning feeling in her stomach at the the possibility that Jaime was done with her. It was madness and yet... why hadn't Jaime replied?

“My Lady Targaryen,” Qyburn said obsequiously as he lurked in the corner of her drawing room, “My condolences on your current predicament,”

Cersei drummed her fingers against the coffee table and tapped her foot. Her constant agitation had her leaping up from her seat at every passing footstep.

“Damn Rhaegar,” she cursed, “And damn Jaime. Damn them both! How many times have the both of them swore their love for? Told me I was dearer to them than anything? And now they have both betrayed me,” she spat, “Men! Their promises hold as much value as an ugly whore,”

“Surely not mine, my Lady,” Qyburn protested gently, hands folded placidly against his lap, “Although, I admit to having failed you regarding your husband. Had I known your intentions were more than just to be rid of him, I may have been able to keep him long enough to alter his Will, before he succumbed to his unfortunate illness,”

“Of course that is why I wanted him gone!” Cersei snapped.

“You may find,” Qyburn pondered, “That this sorry state of affairs may be to your benefit,”

“Really?” Cersei scoffed, “How so?”

“Well,” Qyburn said gently, “For your husband to have died so soon after your marriage, and to have left you his main beneficiary in his Will, eyebrows may have been raised as to the circumstances surrounding his death. As it is, Lord Targaryen's death can be attributed to illness and nothing more, for his dying is of no use to you. Otherwise,” Qyburn stepped towards Cersei, so that the candles on the tale threw ghastly shadows over his face, making him look positively skeletal, “There may have been talk,”

Cersei gulped and drew herself upwards. “You do not mean to... threaten me?”

“You do me a great disservice, my Lady," Qyburn said in a hurt, soft voice, “Indeed, you must know of the regard I feel for you. And if I may be of any help to you, then I will devote my entire being to do so,”

“There is nothing you can do to help,” Cersei declared, “Nothing!”

“Oh,” Qyburn corrected her in his kindly, grandfatherly voice, “But I think I can,”

Cersei watched in horror as Qyburn, with no small degree of difficulty, descended to one gouty knee.

“Lady Cersei,” he said, taking Cersei's shaking hand, “I believe I have been a bachelor too long. In truth, up till now I have never desired to be wed. But up till now, I have never met another woman like you. Will you do me the greatest honour of bestowing me your fair hand in marriage,” he caressed Cersei's aforementioned fair hand with veined, liver spotted fingers, the tip of his tongue slipping out and swiftly licking his lips.

“Why?” Cersei half choked, half sobbed. Why was this happening to her? How could it be?

“The nights grow long and cold,” Qyburn informed her, “when one is alone, with no one in their bed to warm them,”

Cersei shuddered at the thought of becoming a bed warmer for this decrepit old man. She tried to withdraw her hand, only to find Qyburn clinging on like a limpet.

“And I find,” he persisted, “That in those long nights, one cannot help but think back on their life. Their deeds, and their regrets,”

Qyburn's large, pale eyes looked up at her. Wide and innocent, and yet there was something so satisfied in them, like a spider eyeing up a fly firmly caught in its web. He had her. There was no denying. The slightest flicker of a smile crossed over Qyburn's lips as Cersei realised that tears were tracking down her face.

How was it that after everything she had gone through, everything she had done, she was back where she started? Forced once more into wedlock , this time to repulsive little lecher who held the power to utterly destroy her. To do otherwise would mean her utter ruin, but to do as he wished would be to condemn herself once more to a loveless marriage and near poverty! The man was a doctor, nowhere near her equal. And yet her fate rested in his grey, withered hands. She was as vulnerable as she had been at eighteen, and sold into marriage to Robert by her father.

And now, after all this time, she was not free. Still not free.

“Well?” Qyburn asked, “Do you accept my offer of help?”

Cersei's mind wondered to the little vials of poison that she kept hidden in her study, the ones Qyburn had been so good as to gift her. Cold swept over her and yet her trembling stopped.

“Yes, Doctor Qyburn,” she told him, calm now having returned once more to her voice, “You will help me,”

 _'And in ways_ ,' she thought to herself as Qyburn pressed his moist lips to her hand, _'That you cannot even imagine,'_

**#**

It was with disinterested confusion that Brienne watched the servants hurry over to her, when she once more rode into the stable grounds. The servants had all been kind enough to give her a wide birth, even Podrick though she saw it pained him to do so. She longed to reach out and offer him reassurance, but the words would get caught in her throat like a fish bone. And Jaime, she could barely even talk to. Not after she had failed him so. She saw the grief in his eyes whenever he looked at her, and wished she could bring him some solace, but when heartache filled her so, stopping up her veins and drowning her lungs, she was powerless to do so.

She would eat breakfast alone, forcing down each mouthful. Her appetite had yet to return, although she had long since conceded to eating regular, decent sized meals, if only because her maid had been ordered to watch over her and saw that she ate. That Jaime had still managed to show such concern for her after she had let him down only increased her guilt a thousandfold. He had been so kind to her. Everyone had been so kind, though she did not deserve it.

Her old Governess was right, she was a failure of womanhood.

“My Lady,” Podrick gasped, face red and sweat trickling down his forehead, “You must see his Lordship. He is in the sitting room and is in urgent need of your presence,”

Brienne dismounted but kept Stranger's reins in her hand. “Whatever it is, “ she mumbled, “I do not see how I shall be of any help,”

“My lady,” Podrick trailed off awkwardly, “It's Lady Cersei,”

Brienne's stomach dropped. _Not her!_ Brienne begged, _'please not her'._ Cersei's presence could only mean one thing for herself and Jaime, and just after she had allowed him into her heart. Still, at least the Lady Cersei may be of a comfort to him. The beautiful lady who had born him three, healthy children. Who had done everything she could not do. Was everything she could never be. And had Jaime's heart in a way she never would.

“I will leave them be,” she informed Podrick dully.

“You misunderstand, my Lady,” Podrick corrected her, “Lady Cersei is not here, but Lord Jaime has received news of her,”

Brienne's head jerked up. “What news?”

“She has,” Pod hesitated, “It seems that Lady Cersei has, well, ended it. Her life, I mean. She has ended it,”

Brienne didn't ask for details. She blinked slowly, before thrusting her whip into Pod's hands and marching swiftly to the sitting room, a sudden fire lit in her belly. There she found her husband, staring into the empty fireplace, a crumpled letter in hand.

“Jaime?” she said softly, “I had just heard what has happened,”

Jaime turned to her, eyes widening slightly. He reached out hand, which Brienne quickly accepted, and he drew her beside him. Wordlessly, he slipped the other round her shoulder, so that she was facing him.

“Do you know what happened?” she asked eventually.

Jaime shook his head. “Tyrion has travelled to Dragonstone, to find out the details,”

Brienne shook her head. “I truly am sorry Jaime,” she told him earnestly, “I know what she was to you. I know how you love her,”

Jaime ran his hand down Brienne's cheek. He sighed distractedly. “I did love her, once. Or at least, some twisted, perverted love. But I built her on a pedestal. Turned her into some divine creature she never could be. I grieve more for the woman I thought she was, than the woman she had become,” with a twisted smile he said, “We used to say we were one soul in two bodies, kept apart by a cruel fate. By the time we had a chance to be together, we had grown so different. I dare-say I disappointed her as much as she ended up dissapointing me,”

“She wasn't the only one,” Brienne murmured apologetically.

Jaime blinked incredulously, as though Brienne's words had caused to come crashing out of his haze.

“Brienne,” he said softly, “I do not know what you meant by those words, but if you think you ever disappointed me, then you are quite wrong,”

“But, our child-” Brienne began.

“It was not your fault,” Jaime insisted, “I have never thought it to be so,”

Brienne softened in his hold. She tucked her head into his neck, whispering quietly, “I could not bare to be near you,” she explained, “The guilt was too great,”

Jaime rested his chin on her head and closed his eyes. “Gods Brienne,” he breathed, “And I thought you hated me,”

Startled, Brienne pulled back and stared at him in astonishment.

“Hate you?” she repeated, “Jaime, how could you think that. Of course I do not hate you. I-”

She broke off, her tongue turning to lead as Jaime watched her with wide, desperate eyes. She wanted to say it. To find out exactly where he stood, so that together they could face the future on equal ground. But could she tell him? Admit the truth she had tried so long to deny, and give him the keys to heart, and to her destruction? Would to deny her feelings any longer be wise? Or would it be cowardly?

Brienne found it did not matter, for in truth, she knew herself to be neither.

“I love you,” she said simply.

The next thing she knew, Jaime pulled her into a frantic, fevered kiss. One hand at the back of her head, the other on the small of her back, keeping her close. Brienne clutched his shirt as though it were a piece of wreckage, the feeling of his body pressed against hers drowning her. His fingers bruised her flesh and the gold buttons of his waistcoat dug into her belly, but still she did not break away until both were gasping for air.

After composing herself, Brienne turned to Jaime.

“So,” she asked, “Do you love me too?”

Jaime shook his head, the hint of bemused smile tugging on his face. He placed both hands on her cheeks, looking her straight in the eye.

“Love you too?” he asked, “Of course I do! Seven Hells Brienne, do you even have to ask?”

And there it was. They loved each other. There could be no going back now. It was out and it was said and it was terrifying. It filled Brienne with more fear than she had ever known.

But it was the best type of fear.

 

 


End file.
